Pact  Siorc  JJl^iis  — S>erirs  3Iuiü 


Papa  Juan  or  the  Centenarian 

serafín  Sc  JOAQUIN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERRO  {Spanish) 


Peace  at  Home 

GEORGES  COURTELINE  (French) 


R  i  I  h  a  r  d     G  .      B  a  tl  g^  e  r  ,     P  ii  h  I  i  s  li  ^  j  ,     li  c  s  /  a  ri 


\^ 


THE  Um^T  ARY 

"■'VERSITY  OF  C'^  'N  DIEGO 

LA  JOLLA.  ,, 


PAPA  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTÉN- 

ARIAN* 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

By  Serafín  and  Joaquín  Alvarez  Quintero 

Translated  from  the  Spanish  by  Thomas  Walsh 

Characters 

Currita 

Dona  Marciala 

Dona  Filomena 

Eulalia 

Carmen  Campos 

Rosa 

Papá  Juan 

Trino 

Don  Evaristo 

Antonón 

Alonso 

Manuel 

ACT  I 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Arenales  del  Rio,  and  in  a  lower  room  in 
the  house  of  Papa  Juan.  At  the  rear,  three  airy  arches  with  fine 
marble  columns  lead  into  a  joyful,  fiowery  garden.  Light  curtains  hang 
from  each  of  the  arches.     Entrances  on  the  right    and    left.      Furniture 

^Copyright  1918  by  Thomas  Walsh. 

PAPA  JUAN  is  fully  protected  by  copyright  in  the  United  States  and  in  all 
other  English  speaking  countries.  No  performances  may  be  given,  whether  amateur  or 
professional,  for  any  purpose  whatever,  except  by  permission  of  the  Society  of  Spanish 
Authors,  Room  62,  20  Nassau  Street,  New  York. 

253 


254  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

relatively  modern,  neat  and  orderly.  Pictures  ihozving  good  taste,  ranged 
symmetrically.  Tiled  floor  and  wainscoting,  polished  and  shining.  It 
is  a  morning  in  the  month  of  Alay. 

{Enter  by  one  of  the  rear  doors  the  old  servants:  Manuel,  who 
is  coachman  to  Papá  Juan,  and  Carmen  Campos.) 

Manuel. — Come  right  in.  Carmen  Campos.  Wait  here  while 
I  go  to  tell  the  Señora. 

Carmen. — Say  there  is  no  hurry. 

Manuel. — Eh  ? 

Carmesí. — That  I  am  not  in  a  hurry. 

Manuel.^Ahl     {Exit  through  door  on  the  left.) 

Carmen. — You  could  eat  from  oif  the  floor!  Doña  Marciala 
has  always  been  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 

Manuel  {Returning  by  the  same  door). — The  Señora  is  coming 
right  away. 

Carmen. — She  needn't  hurry. 

Manuel.— Gooáhye,  Carmen  Campos. 

Carmen. — Goodbye,  Manuel  Paez. 

(Manuel  exit  through  the  garden.  Then  Dona  Marciala 
appears  at  the  door  to  the  left.  She  is  a  lady  of  some  seventy-five 
years,  well-behaved,  kindly^  and  tranquil?) 

Doña  Marciala. — Well,  Carmen  Campos. 

Carmen. — God  bless  you.  Doña  Marciala.  Are  you  very 
well? 

Doña  Marciala. — Very  well,  thank  God. 

Carmen. — And  your  father.''     And  the  Señorito? 

Doña  Marciala.— Both  very  well.  {Stooping  down  to  pick 
up  a  green  leaf  that  has  blown  in  from  the  garden.)  And  Pepilla 
has  told  me  she  swept  the  room!     Does  it  look  that  way  to  you? 

Carm.en. — The  wind  has  blown  it  in.  Señorita. 

Doña  Marciala. — Yes,  yes,  a  very  fine  wind.  Every  day 
things  grow  more  dirty.  It  was  not  so  in  your  time.  Sit  down, 
my  good  woman. 

Carmen. — With  your  permission.  Señorita. 

Doña  Marciala. — Have  you  guessed  why  I  sent  for  you  ? 

Carmen. — In  a  way,  yes;  through  the  town  there's  a  rumor. 

Doña  Marciala. — I'll  wager  it's  no  secret. 

Carmen. — The  birthday  of  your  father,  I  mean. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO    255 

Doña  Marciala. — Exactly.  It  is  enough  to  start  a  revolu- 
tion in  the  house  and  make  it  jump  out  of  the  window,  just  for 
fun.  He  completes  one  hundred  years  the  twenty-fifth  of  this 
month,  and  he  wishes  to  celebrate  the  event  in  a  fitting  manner. 
Carmen. — One  hundred  years — why  that's  a  century,  isn't 
it.? 

Doña  Marciala. — A  century,  as  you  say. 

Carmen. — Who  would  believe  it  seeing  him  still  running 
about  the  streets! 

Doña  Marciala. — But  if  you  could  only  hear  him  about  the 
house!  He  has  more  spirits  than  I  or  my  brother  have  together. 
He  is  a  miracle  from  Heaven! 

Carmen. — They  say  that  his  brother  is  coming,  the  one  who 
lives  in  Madrid,  although  he  is  very  old. 

Doña  Marciala. — Very  old.  In  fact  there  is  nobody  here- 
abouts who  is  very  young.  He  has  written  that  he  will  come  if 
he  is  able  to  move  about.  Also  my  sister  Maria  of  Granada 
with  her  sons  and  grandchildren.  And  Aunt  Caroline,  you 
remember  her?  she  has  two  married  daughters  already.  And 
three  first  cousins  of  Papá  Juan  with  all  their  families — and  I 
don't  know  who  else;  in  these  days  the  house  will  be  like  a  republic! 

Carmen. — Lord!  Señorita  Marciala.  It's  a  crowd  to  drive 
you  crazy. 

Doña  Marciala. — It's  not  so  bad  on  my  account;  but  my 
brother  who  is  the  soul  of  order  is  bristling  at  every  point.  But 
see,  Papá  Juan  is  coming  out,  and  as  Currita  has  not  come  for 
him,  he  is  starting  for  her  house. 

Carmen. — His  granddaughter? 

Doña  Marciala.— No,  his  great  granddaughter.  Currita  is 
the  daughter  of  Joaquin  who  died  aged  forty  years. 

Carmen. — Bless  us  and  save  us!  and  here  he  is  still  ready  to 
meet  the  bulls  in  the  plaza ! 

Doña  Marciala. — Good,  but  between  Currita,  who  is  a  little 
imp,  and  the  grandfather  who  is  a  creature  of  one  hundred  years, 
there  is  a  carrying  of  papers  and  telegrams  such  as  you  never  saw 
in  your  life.  Papá  Juan  starts  to  laugh  whenever  he  recalls  the 
name  of  a  new  relative,  and  it  is  a  sight  to  see  him.  Then  im- 
mediately comes  a  letter  of  invitation  which  Currita  writes.  The 
grinning  and  grinning  between  the  two  of  them!  He  has  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  invite  a  second  cousin  of  his  who  is  now  in  South 
America. 

Carmen  {Crossing  herself). — Goodness!     Gracious! 


256  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Doña  Marciala. — I  don't  think  that  my  house,  large  as  it  is, 
will  be  able  to  hold  all  the  guests.  Some  will  have  to  go  to  my 
brother's.  Others  to  Joaquin's;  elsewhere  with  the  others,  for 
the  poor  cannot  expect  palaces. 

Carmen. — Well,  well,  well!  " 

Doña  Marciala. — Now  let  us  come  to  business.  Can  your 
daughters  come  to  help  us  for  a  few  days.? 

Carmen. — All  of  them,  Señorita  Marciala,  as  it  is  your  house. 
There's  my  Rosa  can  come,  and  you  know  she  is  very  handy. 
Not  because  she  is  my  child,  but  she  is  worth  her  weight  in  gold! 
Then  there  is  Dolores;  I'll  write  to  her, to  Estepyla  and  ask  her  to 
bring  her  husband.  Then  there's  my  Carmen,  m  case  you  need 
an  extra  hand.  There's  Andrea  too,  who  has  a  way  of  making 
cake  to  beat  any  bakery,  or  the  Nuns  of  the  Trinida,  Señorita. 
There's  my  Pepa  too,  who  although  she  is  still  a  youngster  is  a 
wonder.     And  as  for  men,  you  m.ay  have  my  Juan. 

Doña  Marciala. — Good,  and  there  are  more  men  v/e  shall 
need. 

Carmen. — That  being  so,  I'll  bring  my  Pedro  with  my  Juan. 

Doña  Marciala. — And  your  husband? 

Carw.en. — Don't  mention  him!  My  husband  is  my  con- 
demnation ! 

Doña  Marciala. — What  is  he  doing  now? 

Carmen. — Spending  the  days  in  the  tavern,  drinking  with 
four  other  loafers  and  cursing  the  priests.  Formerly  they  cursed 
the  monasteries,  now  it  is  the  parish  priest. 

Doña  Marciala. — God  bless  us,  woman.  Tell  him  from  me 
to  stop  that,  that  the  priests  do  harm  to  nobody. 

Carmen. — That's  what  I  tell  him;  but  he  says  that  it  is  the 
priests  who  marry  people,  and  they  must  be  paid  back. 

Doña  Marciala  (Smiling). — Bah! 

Carmen. — Drunken  talk,  Señorita  Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala. — Well,  then  for  a  start,  send  me  your  eldest 
girl. 

Carmen. — My  Carmen. 

Doña  Marciala. — And  the  one  who  makes  the  cakes. 

Carmen. — My  Andrea. 

Doña  Marciala. — And  I'll  call  on  you  for  the  others  later. 

[From  the  right  door  enters  Don  Evaristo,  the  brother  of  Doña 
Marciala,  and  five  or  six  years  older  than  she.  He  is  an  old  man 
very  correct  and  fussy.) 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  257 

Don  Evaristo  {Somewhat  nervously). — I  should  like  to  know — 
Good  morning,  Carmen  Campos. 

Carmen. — Good  morning,  Señorito  Don  Evaristo. 

Don  Evaristo. — I  should  like  to  know 

Carmen. — It's  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  to  see  you  looking  so  well. 

Don  Evaristo. — Thank  you.  I  should  like  to  know  who  has 
torn  the  page  off  my  calendar? 

Doña  Marciala.—\  did. 

Don  Evaristo. — Of  course  it  had  to  be  you.  These  women! 
Don't  you  know  that  I  collect  all  these  pages  so  as  to  burn  them 
together  at  the  first  of  the  year?     What  have  you  done  with  it? 

Doña  Marciala. — Look  on  the  mahogany  sideboard,  you'll 
find  it  there.     Don't  worry! 

Don  Evaristo. — It  is  just  like  the  wind  to  blow  it  away,  or 
the  whisk  broom. 

Doña  Marciala. — The  whisk  broom?  I  have  put  it  away! 
Wait,  let  me  see  where  I  laid  it.  With  all  this  upset —  Yes,  I 
remember.     I'll  go  myself  and  get  it  for  you. 

{She  goes  out  hy  the  left  door.) 

Don  Evaristo.— lih.a.t  is  the  way  with  the  creature  for  more 
than  two  weeks.  No  head  or  tail  to  anything.  She  is  not  fit  for 
such  a  strain.     How  have  you  been,  Carm.en  Campos? 

Carmen. — Very  well,  Don  Evaristo. 

Don  Evaristo. — Imagination,  her  imagination!  The  great 
procession  marches  on!  Her  heart — her  stomach — the  machin- 
ery is  worn  out.     I  am  deeply  worried  about  her. 

Carmen. — Yes? 

Don  Evaristo. — Yes,  the  poor  creature  thiaks  I  am  going  to 
die  before  her;  but  the  day  we  least  expect  it  is  when  misfortune 
comes. 

Carmen. — Who  would  think  of  such  a  thing,  for  Heaven's 
sake? 

Don  Evaristo. — You  will  see,  you  will  see.  She  is  becoming 
an  invalid,  I,  on  the  other  hand,  am  quite  robust. 

(Doña  Marciala  returns  with  the  whisk  broom  and  turns  to 
Don  Evaristo.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Here  take  the  whisk  bwoom;  you're  a 
nuisance  about  the  house. 

Don  Evaristo. — Give  it  to  me  then.     Whenever  I  complain — 

Doña  Marciala. — If  you  carry  on  about  such  a  trifle,  how- 
are  you  going  to  stand  the  next  few  days? 


258  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Carmen. — I  should  say  so!  With  the  revolution  that  is  going 
to  break  out  here! 

Don  Evaristo. — I  have  been  thinking  of  that  and  been  sharp- 
ening my  teeth  for  it.  Still  we  are  uninvaded  and  look — {point- 
ing at  his  shoes.) 

Doña  Marciala. — What? 

Don  Evaristo. — Look  how  this  house  is  run!     Look! 

Carmen. — Where,  Señorito? 

Don  Evaristo. — Look,  Marciala,  look!  My  shoes  not  shined 
since  Saturday,  and  today  is  Monday.  That  tells  the  story, 
Carmen  Campos.  You  know  my  habits —  Where  did  you  say 
I  would  find  the  leaf  of  my  calendar? 

Doña  Marciala. — I  said  on  the  mahogany  sideboard 

Don  Evarist». — V^ery  well.     Good-day,  Carmen  Campos. 

Carmen. — Good-day,  Señorito  Don  Evaristo. 

{Exit  Don  Evaristo  hy  door  on  right.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Now  you  can  see  him;  every  day  more  full 
of  oddities.     Age  is  making  him.  an  old  m.an. 

Carmen. — Come,  com.e;  he  has  always  been  very  careful-like 
about  his  things. 

Doña  Marciala. — But  with  increasing  years!  How  do  you 
think  he  looks;  you  have  not  seen  him.  for  some  time? 

Carmen. — He  doesn't  look  ill  to  me. 

Doña  Marciala. — No?  Really?  Well,  to  outsiders  and  for 
the  moment —     But  the  nights — his  hoarseness  and  cough 

Carmen. — But  Señorita  Marciala,  all  old  folks  have  their 
troubles. 

Doña  Marciala. — I  am  very  worried  about  him.  The  poor 
fellow  believes  that  I  am  going  to  die  before  him;  but  as  you  see 
unfortunately — he  is  very  broken,  ver>^  broken.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  am.  feeling  my  very  best  and  shall  live  at  least  ten  years 
to  come. 

Carmen. — Upon  my  soul,  there's  nobody  bears  her  age  any 
better  than  yourself.  You  will  reach  one  hundred,  like  Don 
Juan. 

Doña  Marciala. — I  can  hardly  hope  for  that.  And  yet  there's 
a  chance.     Here  he  comes  now  with  all  his  hundred  years! 

Carmen. — I  am  lucky  to  see  him  before  I  go. 

{Enter  Papá  Juan  hy  the  door  on. the  right.  His  hat  is  in  his 
hand  a7id  he  leans  on  a  heavy  stick.  He  walks  energetically  as 
though  his  feet  were  digging  into  the  ground.  His  clothes  severe 
and  comfortable  give  the  impression  as  though  his  body  had  shrunken 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  259 

up  inside  them.     He  looks  one  hundred,  although  his  eyes  shine 
with  the  brightness  of  youth.) 

Papá  Juan. — Hasn't  Currita  come?     No  Currita? 

Doña  Marciala. — She  hasn't  come  yet. 

Papá  Juan. — She  always  hugs  the  sheets.  There  never  was 
such  a  sleepy-head! 

Carmen. — Señorito,  good  morning  to  youl 

Papá  Juan. — Good  morning  to  you,  Carmen  also.  What's 
the  decision.'*  Are  your  daughters  coming  to  help  us  out  during 
the  celebration.-* 

Carmen. — Yes,  Señor,  they  will  all  be  here.  Doña  Marciala 
always  arranges  that  with  us. 

Papá  Juan. — Everything  is  going  fine.  Listen,  Alarciala, 
I  have  written  Rafael.  He  promises  that  now  the  Director  of 
the  mines  has  given  permission  that  he  will  come  with  all  his 
family. 

Doña  Marciala. — Good  heavens!     What  a  gathering! 

Papá  Juan. — ^Twelve  little  ones,  Carmen  Campos!  The 
house  will  be  like  a  bird-cage.  Between  nephews  and  nieces  and 
grandnieces  we  shall  sit  down  forty-five  strong. 

Carmen. — It  will  look  like  an  asylum! 

Papá  Juan. — And  all  ages;  from  thirty  years  to  thirty 
months!  One  niece  alone  will  be  lacking  and  that  bothers  me. 
I  don't  know  how  to  arrange  to  have  her  here.  But  no,  it  won't 
be  possible. 

Carmen. — Which  one  is  that  Señorita.-* 

Papá  Juan. — Josefina,  my  godchild.  They  will  not  let  her 
leave  the  convent  for  the  day.  As  the  little  thing  was  professed 
four  years  ago,  they  will  not  permit  her  to  leave  the  cloister. 

Doña  Marciala. — Of  course  not,Papá;there  are  some  things — 

Papá  Jua7i. — Daughter,  for  such  a  day —  Wlien  will  there 
be  another  such  occasion.^  Don't  you  think  so.  Carmen  Campos.-* 
That  is  what  I  say  to  the  little  dunce;  I  naturally  expect  to  live 
another  hundred  years,  but  then  all  the  rest  of  the  family  will 
have  passed  away!  Therefore,  I  wish  us  all  to  be  united  at  once. 
{He  laughs  and  Carmen  and  Doña  Marciala  join  him.)  Good- 
bye, now.  I  am  now  going  to  give  two  little  taps  to  Currita  if 
she  has  not  risen  yet. 

Doña  Marciala. — Don't  you  wish  my  husband  to  go  wñth 
you.-* 

Papá  Juan.— \  wish  no  old  man  to  keep  me  company.  {Goes 
out  through  the  garden,  laughing.) 


26o  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Doña  Marciala. — Let  him  go  alone,  as  it  is  only  across  the 
street 

Carmen. — If  I  hadn't  seen  it,  I  could  scarce  believe  it.  Doña 
Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala. — It  is  true  as  you  see,  Carmen.  I  am  anxious 
to  have  these  days  over,  because  although  he  enjoys  them  very 
much  they  excite  him  and  weary  him.  There  has  been  no  way 
to  distract  his  mind  from  the  thoughts  of  the  celebration.  The 
garden,  the  farm,  the  birds  which  ordinarily  interest  him,  have 
all  lost  their  attraction.  He  never  stops,  never  rests —  And  he 
is  carrying  one  hundred  years;  can  you  see  who  is  coming.^  Is  it 
he.? 

Carmen. — No,  Señora,  it  is  not  he;  it  is  the  Señorita  Filomena. 

Doña  Marciala  {In  perplexity). — My  sister-in-lav/.? 

Carmen. — Yes;  with  her  eldest  girl. 

Doña  Marciala. — Well,  I  should  die!  Certainly  the  Lord 
disposes  all  things! 

Carmen. — That's  as  we  look  at  it.  When  shall  I  send  my 
young  ones  to  you  ? 

Doña  Marciala. — As  soon  as  you  can.  Today,  if  possible; 
if  not,  tomorrow. 

Carmen. — My  Carmen  and  Andrea.  You  will  see  how  glad 
they  will  be  to  come.     God  reward  you  in  everything,  Señorita! 

Doña  Marciala. — Go  with  God.  Wait  outside  and  have 
luncheon  with  the  other  maids,  in  the  kitchen. 

Carmen. — With  many  thanks.  Señorita. 

{She  goes  out  hy  the  door  on  the  left.  Through  the  garden  arrive 
Doña  Filomena  a7id  her  daughter  Eulalia.  They  are  simply 
clad  and  wear  light  shawls  arranged  over  their  shoulders  and  carry 
parasols.  Doña  Filomena,  daughter-in-law  of  Papá  Juan,  is  an 
irritable,  touchy  person.  Eulalia  is  the  victim  of  her  mother^s 
disposition,  and  akvays  regards  her  with  terror.) 

Doña  Filomena  {Holding  her  daughter  back  from  entering  the 
room,  with  a  frown  on  her  face). — Has  Papá  Juan  gone  out  because 
I  am  coming  in .? 

Doña  Marciala. — He  hasn't  even  seen  you,  woman.  He  has 
gone  because  Currita  hasn't  arrived,  and  he  is  looking  for  her. 

Doña  Filome7ia. — So  Currita  is  still  the  main  thing  with  him! 

Doña  Alarciala. — Yes;  but  won't  you  come  in.'' 

Doña  Filomena. — We  shall  come  in,  now  that  you  have  asked 
lis.      For  the  last  three  m^onths  I  have  vowed  that  neither  my 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO     261 

poor  daughters  nor  I  should  ever  put  a  step  in  this  house,  so  as 
to  give  no  offence  with  our  old  clothes. 

Doña  Marciala. — O  Lord! 

Doña  Filomena. — But  it  is  always  my  part  to  break  my 
resolution. 

Doña  Marciala. — Alvv^ays  your  part!  Come,  give  me  a  kiss, 
dear  Eulalia.  As  for  your  mother,  I  can  only  say  she  is  impossi- 
ble. 

Eulalia. — How  have  you  been,  Auntie  .f' 

Do?ia  Marciala. — Passably.  Every  time  I  see  you,  you 
grovv^  prettier  and  with  better  color. 

Eulalia. — I  feel  very  well  since  you  sent  me  that  medicine. 

Doña  Marciala. — I  told  you  so. 

Doña  Filomena. — Is  your  husband  home? 

Doña  Marciala. — He  is.     Would  you  like  to  see  him.'' 

Doña  Filomena. — Why  not.^  Today  he  is  at  home.  We 
have  come  in  good  time.  A  miracle!  For  there  are  days  when 
he  is  home  when  they  say  he  is  not.  Everything  is  clear,  but  the 
chocolate  is  thick. 

Doña  Marciala. — Have  you  anything  important  to  say  to 
him? 

Doña  Filomena. — Yes,  and  to  you. 

Doña  Marciala. — Then  I  shall  go  and  call  him.  Pardon  me 
a  m.oment.     {She  goes  out  through  the  door  on  the  left.) 

Doña  Filomena. — To  call  him,  eh?  Let  her  who  doesn't 
know  you,  watch  you. 

Eulalia. — Mamm.a!     By  all  that  is  holy! 

Doña  Filomena. — I  have  already  told  you  that  I  have  bad 
blood.  And  they  will  hear  me,  will  hear  me!  What  I  bring 
today  will  upset  the  sack. 

Eulalia. — Just  the  same  as  ever. 

Doña  Filomena. — As  ever  or  as  never,  but  I  will  upset  the 
sack.  I  have  revenge  to  take.  They  have  done  me  m.any  in- 
juries,— many!     And  I  have  bad  blood. 

Eulalia. — But  don't  you  see  that  you  will  wear}^  them  who 
favor  us?  Don't  you  realize  that  we  are  living  on  what  they 
share  among  us? 

Doña  Filomena. — That  is  their  duty;  they  are  doing  only  what 
they  ought  to.  This  miserable  allowance  that  they  give  us  does 
not  warrant  them  to  offend  us  continually.  If  your  poor  father 
could  only  raise  his  head!  Did  you  remark  the  look  your  aunt 
gave  you  when  she  saw  the  blouse  as  she  kissed  you? 


202  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Eulalia. — What  look  did  she  give,  for  the  love  of  Heaven? 

Doña  Filomena. — Innocent!  As  for  the  kiss  she  gave  you, 
it  was  to  enable  her  to  feel  if  it  was  made  of  silk!  I  know  that 
sly  lady  to  the  very  marrow!  There  is  inore  underground  with 
her  than  on  the  surface.  And  as  for  your  Uncle  Evaristo,  I 
don't  go  to  church  with  him,  either.     He  is  the  very  worst. 

Eulalia. — The  worst!     Uncle  Evaristo! 

Doña  Filomena. — See  here,  daughter,  why  is  it  that  with  you 
everybody  is  a  saint  except  your  own  mother?  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself! 

{Enter   Doña   Marciala   and   Don  Evaristo.) 

Don  Evaristo. — I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Filomena! 

Doña  Filomena. — What  hypocrisy,  eh? 

Don  Evaristo. — Now  look  here,  Filomena,  if  you  have  come 
here  as  usual  with  your  quarrels,  I  shall  turn  right  away  again! 
I  have  just  taken  some  Manzanilla  wine  and  I  don't  wish  to  have 
it  turned  into  a  poison. 

Doña  Filomena. — With  my  troubles  I  come,  yes.  Señor. 

Do7i  Evaristo. — And  you,  little  one,  how  do  you  do? 

Eulalia. — ^As  you  see  me.  Uncle.     And  how  are  you? 

Don  Evaristo — Doing  all  I  can  to  keep  well. 

Eulalia. — And  succeeding  marvellously. 

Don  Evaristo. — So,  so.  You  are  looking  very  fine  and  lady- 
Hke. 

Doña  Filofnena  {With  a  murderous  look). — Ehem! 

Doña  Marciala. — It  is  true;  you  are  wearing  an  exquisite 
waist. 

Doña  Filomena. — Ehem!     Ehem! 

Eulalia. — Do  you  like  it.  Auntie? 

Doña  Marciala. — Much,  very  much.     It  is  charming. 

Doña  Filomena. — We  have  had  it  from  Paris. 

Doña  Marciala. — No,  don't  I  know  that  she  and  her  sisters 
have  been  sewing  every  morning  they  get  up?  This  bit  of  pre- 
tence doesn't  get  you  anywhere. 

Don  Evaristo. — Neither  this  pretence  nor  any  other.  Señora. 
I  have  no  use  for  pretences.  Let  us  get  to  business;  while  we  are 
still  sensible;  what  brought  you  here? 

Doña  Filomena. — You  will  say  that  the  string  of  sausages 
has  been  broken! 

Don  Evaristo. — Say  whatever  you  intend! 

Doña  Marciala. — But,  let  us  first  sit  down. 

Doña  Filomena. — It  was  time  they  asked  us,  my  child.     You 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  263 

notice  you  have  been  standing,  waiting  to  see  if  this  was  merely 
a  visit  on  foot.  But  they  ask  you;  perhaps  it  will  be  the  last 
time  in  this  house;  even  if  we  are  on  the  doorstep. 

Eulalia. — Oh,  Mamma! 

Doña  Filomena  (Mockingly).— Oh,  Mamma;  Oh,  Mamma! 
What  do  you  mean  with  your  "Oh,  Mamma?"  Lord,  what  a 
child!  Ask  the  Lord  on  your  knees  that  you  will  have  a  mother- 
in-law  as  good  as  I  am!  And  if  you  don't  get  any  it  will  be  be- 
cause there  is  nobody  to  pay  your  dowry.  For  you  have  not 
fallen  into  favor,  like  some  others  we  know 

(Eulalia  takes  a  pose  of  absolute  resignation.,  as  do  also  Doña 
Marciala  and  Don  Evaristo.     All  sigh  heavily  a7id  sit  down.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Well,  you  were  going  to  tell  us 

Doña  Filomena. — One  thing  at  a  time.  Tell  me  first,  am  I 
one  of  the  family  ? 

Doña  Marciala. — Surely!     You  were  married  to  my  brother. 

Don  'Evaristo  (Sighing) .—May  he  rest  in  peace! 

(Don  Evaristo  listens  to  the  conversation  of  Doña  Marciala 
and  Doña  Filoaiena  twisting  his  fingers  into  all  kinds  of  shapes. 
Eulalia  listens  in  displeasure,  wishing  to  interfere,  but  without 
effect.) 

Doña  Filomena. — I  ask  it  since  if  I  am  of  the  family,  it  doesn't 
seem  so. 

Doña  Marciala. — Why  doesn't  it  seem  so? 

Doña  Filomena. — It  doesn't  seem  so  because  at  this  very 
moment  everybody  in  Arenales,  except  me,  is  aware  that  there 
is  a  great  feast  for  the  family  being  prepared  in  this  house. 

Don  Evaristo. — Yes;  so  it  happens  that  you  did  not  know  of 
it? 

Doña  Filomena. — I  don't  see  how  I  could  know  of  it. 

Doña  Marciala. — Papá  Juan  has  been  twice  to  your  house 
to  tell  you  about  it,  but  there  was  nobody  at  home. 

Eulalia. — That's  what  I  was  going  to  say. 

Doña  Filomena. — You  keep  still.  All,  the  same  it  v^^as  a 
strange  accident  that  Papá  Juan  did  not  find  any  of  us  at  home 
the  two  times  he  called. 

Doña  Marciala. — And  what  would  you  wish  him  to  do  about 
it? 

Doña  Filomena. — And  is  there  in  the  house  no  paper,  ink, 
pen,  and  envelopes? 

Doña  Marciala. — It  would  have  been  fine  for  you,  wouldn't 
it,  if  you  received  a  written  invitation! 


204  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Eulalia. — That's  right! 

Doña  Filomena. — Hush!  Let  your  elders  speak.  (Don 
Evaristo  winks  at  Eulalia.)  I  saw  you  wink;  don't  think  I 
have  overlooked  it.  Very  well,  I  pass  by  this  want  of  respect 
as  I  am  used  to  flouts  and  jeers.  Let  us  come  to  the  second 
point;  what  is  this  celebration  to  be? 

Doña  Marciala. — Woman  can  you  presume  so  far?  We 
celebrate  with  a  complete  family  reunion,  distant  relatives  as 
well  as  close  ones,  the  hundredth  birthday  of  Papá  Juan.  It  is 
his  one  desire,  poor  old  man! 

Doña  Filomefia. — Ah,  all  the  family! 

Doña  Marciala. — All,  yes.  If  that  will  in  any  way  be  possi- 
ble. 

Doña  Filomena. — What  kind  of  all?  Tell  us  what  you  mean 
by  all? 

Doña  Marciala. — You  heard  me  say  "all." 

Doña  Filomena. — But  I  shall  be  very  much  offended,  it  will 
spoil  the  picture  if  Guadalupe  comes,  for  then  my  daughters  and 
I  will  have  to  remain  at  home,  eating  our  poor  victuals,  but  in 
our  own  home. 

Don  Evaristo  {Starting  up  in  displeasure). — Bah!  Bah! 
There's  no  way  to  suit —  This  will  aggravate  the  effects  of  my 
Manzanilla.     It  is  the  height  of  impertinence ! 

Doña  Filomena. — Impertinence?  But  you  do  not  know  that 
Guadalupe  and  I  are  thus  {pointing  the  ends  of  her  fingers  to- 
gether) . 

Doña  Marciala. — What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?  On  an 
occasion  like  this  you  start  to  dig  up  your  foolishness! 

Eulalia. — It's  the  truth,  the  very  truth! 

Doña  Filomena. — Haven't  I  told  you  to  keep  still?  Fool- 
ishness you  call  that  last  turn  that  Guadalupe  played  me? 

Doña  Marciala. — Now,  look,  here,  Filomena,  you  are  enough 
to  make  a  wooden  saint  start  to  dance.  I  don't  know  what  was 
the  last  turn  Guadalupe  played  you;  but  I  do  know  that  the  first 
turn  she  did  you  after  your  husband's  death  was  to  give  you  the 
very  house  you  are  now  living  in! 

Doña  Filomena. — A  fight,  daughter,  a  fight!  A  pretty  scene 
in  this  house!  To  hide  the  scandal  is  more  than  it  is  worth.  Will 
you  not  let  me  live  my  life  ? 

Doña  Evaristo. — Surely  you  can  run  along  with  a  full  pres- 
sure, Filomena. 

Eulalia. — Don't  get  excited,  Uncle  Evaristo. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  265 

Don  Evaristo. — My  dear,  there's  no  hav'ing  patience  with  her! 

Doña  Filomena  {Rising  suddenly). — Be  calm.  Be  calm,  you 
also,  Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala. — No;  I  am  already  calm  enough. 

Doña  Filomena. — So  am  I.  You  can  go  on  with  your  tan- 
trums. The  question  was  whether  I  should  come  to  the  celebra- 
tion. Poor  people  are  in  the  way.  I  am  the  black  bean  in  the 
soup.     Let  us  go,  Eulalia. 

Doña  Marciala. — Filomena 

Doña  Filomena. — Let  us  leave  here,  Eulalia. 

Doña  Marciala. — You  are  going  to  give  great  displeasure 
to  Papá  Juan. 

Doña  Filomena. — I  have  thought  of  that  also.  Come,  Eula- 
Ha. 

Doña  Marciala. — Leave  her  here  with  me — now  that  she  is 
here. 

Eulalia. — Yes,  do 

Doña  Marciala. — She  can  lunch  with  us  and  then  help  me 
with  a  hundred  things 

Eulalia. — Yes,  yes 

Doña  Filomena. — My  daughter  will  never  clean  dishes  while 
her  mother  lives. 

Eulalia. — Mamma ! 

Doña  Marciala. — If  I  didn't  know  you  of  old,  Filomena,  I 
should  be  greatly  oifended  at  what  you  say.  Your  daughter  will 
not  clean  plates,  nor  I  either.  But  take  her  along  with  you  if 
you  must  have  your  own  way  about  it. 

{A  pause.     Eulalia  restrains  her  sobs.) 

Doña  Filomena. — Look  here,  then,  I  will  not  taint  the  pot  of 
butter.  You  may  stay,  daughter,  stay,  if  to  go  will  cost  you  a 
sigh.  All  I  have  to  say  that  you  seem  more  contented  anywhere 
except  in  your  own  house. 

Don  Evaristo. — All  I  have  to  say  is  that  it  is  as  I  feared,  the 
Manzanilla  has  been  turned  into  sulphuric  acid. 

Doña  Filomena. — You  couldn't  tell  me  any  clearer  that  I  am 
a  nuisance.  You  will  never  have  another  chance  to  say  it.  Good- 
bye, Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala. — Goodbye,  Filomena. 

Doña  Filomena. — Goodbye,  Evaristo. 

Don  Evaristo. — Goodbye. 

Doña  Filomena. — Goodbye,   daughter,   I   leave  you   in   the 


266  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

palace  where  they  have  humiliated  us  and  I  return  to  my  shanty 
with  my  head  in  the  air.     To  live  to  see  the  day !     Great  heaven! 

(She  goes  the  way  she  entered  without  a  word  more  or  a  look 
at  anybody^  as  stiff  as  a  broomstick.) 

Doña  Marciala. — But,  Señor,  what  will  happen? 

Don  Evaristo. — Happen — happen —  {Feeling  the  effects  of 
his  embittered  Manzanilla.)     What  difference  what  happens! 

Doña  Marciala. — What  has  come  between  your  mother  and 
us,  Eulalia? 

Eulalia. — It  is  not  you,  Aunt  Marciala;  but  with  all  the 
world.  Every  day  she  is  m.ore  unhinged.  I  feel  it  because  she 
is  my  mother;  but  she  has  a  disposition  that  is  beyond  all  bearing. 

Don  Evaristo. — No,  there's  no  way  to  change  her. 

Eulalia. — The  little  ones  and  me,  she  drags  us  through  every 
bitterness.  Everything  I  gain  through  the  m.edicine  you  give  me, 
I  lose  through  her  conduct.  So  it  is  that  when  I  am  free  from 
her  a  moment  I  breathe  easily.  God  will  punish  me  for  it  but 
I  breathe  easily.  You  see,  Aunt  Marciala,  it  is  this  way  between 
her  and  Aunt  Guadalupe.  (Doña  Filomena's  gesture  of  pointing 
the  fingers  together  is  imitated  by  Eulalia.) 

Doña  Marciala. — But  for  heaven's  sake  what  is  it  all  about? 

Eulalia. — About  nothing  at  all.  Because  it  just  happens  to 
be  so.  It  is  the  same  as  regards  Papá  Juan  and  the  rest  of  you, 
it  is  so  with  Currita,  it  is  so  with  all  the  visitors  at  the  house — 
Good  Lord,  I  can  stand  it  no  longer!  Aunt  Marciala,  I  tell  you 
I  can  stand  it  no  longer!  It  is  a  trial  beyond  my  strength!  I 
can  stand  no  more  of  it!  If  only  heaven  would  procure  me  a  hus- 
band so  I  might  marry! 

Don  Evaristo. — ^All  kinds  of  food  act  on  me  like  poison. 
Nothing  is  left  me  except  fasting. 

{Enter  Manuel  from  the  garden.  He  holds  in  his  hand  a 
piece  of  paper  with  writing  on  it.) 

Manuel. — Pardon  me.  Doña  Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala. — What  is  it,  Manuel? 

Manuel. — There's  a  man  outside  at  the  gate  has  asked  me  to 
bring  you  this  paper  to  read. 

Don  Evaristo. — Remember  the  fable;  the  consequenoes  of 
opening  the  hand  to  give  an  alms.  You'll  have  to  stop  it  some 
day  or  you'll  be  ruined. 

Doña  Marciala. — Well,  read  it  yourself,  as  I  have  not  my 
glasses  here. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  267 

Eulalia. — Let  me  have  it,  Auntie —  {She  reads  the  paper  to 
her  great  surprise  and  that  of  the  elders.)  "Noble  Señors  of  this 
wealthy  palace — " 

Don  Evaristo. — Yes.     What  gabble 

Doña  Marciala. — Hush. 

Eulalia. — "A  troubadour  who  comes  from  distant  lands,  to 
amuse  the  leisure  hours  of  the  great  has  learned  by  chance  that 
Heaven  has  granted  one  hundred  years  of  life  to  the  patriarch 
of  this  distinguished  family  and  asks  hospitality  for  a  while  to 
sing  in  its  praise  and  glory  the  songs  he  has  composed." 

Don  Evaristo. — What's  that.^  Never  have  I  heard  such  a 
thing ! 

Doña  Marciala. — Not  I  either,  it  gives  me  a  chill,  Evaristo. 

Don  Evaristo. — What  does  the  bearer  look  like,  Alanuel.'' 

(Manuel  breaks  out  into  loud  laughter  which  he  has  thus  far 
held  back  with  difficulty.) 

Doña  Marciala. — What  are  you  laughing  about? 

Don  Evaristo. — What's  this  laughter  for.^ 

Manuel. — How  does  the  bearer  look! 

(Trino  appears  through  the  garden  laughing.  He  is  just  from 
his  voyage.  He  is  the  nephew  of  Papá  Juan  and  is  about  thirty 
years  of  age.  He  enjoys  among  his  family  the  reputation  of  being 
unattached.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Trino! 

Eulalia. — Trino! 

Don  Evaristo. — If  it  isn't  Trino! 

Doña  Marciala. — It  surely  is  Trino. 

Trino. — Aunt!     Uncle  Evaristo!     {Embracing  both.) 

Doña  Marciala. — And  we  making  such  a  mystery  over  the 
messenger! 

Don  Evaristo. — But,  man,  without  letting  us  know  you  were 
coming 

Trino. — Why  not?  A  troubadour  who  comes  from  far 
countries!  I  told  you  in  that  paper.  And  you,  Eulalia,  how 
are  you  ? 

Eulalia. — Well,  and  you,  Trino? 

Trino. — Flying  as  high  as  I  can.  Wasn't  that  your  mother 
who  went  out? 

Eulalia. — It  was  mother. 

Trino. — But  I  called  her  by  name  and  she  only  hurried  her 
step. 

Eulalia. — Is  it  possible? 


268  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Trino. — Manuel  tells  me  that  Papá  Juan  had  gone  out  before 
I  came. 

Don  Evaristo. — It  will  not  be  long  before  he  comes  back. 
What  a  pleasure  it  will  be  for  him  to  see  you ! 

Doña  Marciala. — Listen,  Trino;  perhaps  you  have  brought 
some  luggage? 

Trino. — Only  a  little  bag — and  of  course  my  lute! 

Doña  Marciala. — You  hear,  Manuel.  Take  everything  and 
carry  it  into  the  portrait  room.     There  I'll  look  after  it. 

Manuel. — Very  well,  Señorita. 

Don  Evaristo. — Come,  come  alv/ays  with  the  crest  of  the 
troubadour  1 

Doña  Marciala. — Always  like  the  rain  from  heaven ! 

Trino. — Always!  It  is  so  much  better  for  everybody,  I 
escape  troubles  and  uncertainties  and  I  am  received  with  all  the 
greater  gladness. 

Don  Evaristo. — Are  your  parents  coming.? 

Trino. — It  seems  certain  they  will  come. 

Doña  Marciala. — Delightful!  What  a  joy  for  me  to  em- 
brace my  brother  once  more.     Has  he  grown  old  ? 

Trino. — No. 

Eulalia. — And  Pepe  will  come? 

Trino. — Pepe  is  coming. 

Eulalia. — And  Rorri  ? 

Trino. — Rorri  also.  There  will  be  four  of  my  sisters.  Pilar 
with  her  husband  and  their  four  children;  Anita  with  her  husband 
and  two  boys;  Bebe  with  her  husband  and  son;  and  Rorri — with 
her  fiancee.  The  whole  company  complete!  And  I  am  the  bird 
of  warning. 

Don  Evaristo. — In  the  name  of  Heaven!  I  don't  know  what 
will  happen  in  this  house. 

Trino. — I  have  been  thinking  how  this  occasion  would  affect 
you.  Uncle  Evaristo.  Goodbye  to  the  harmonies  of  your  days! 
Goodbye  to  order  among  your  boxes  and  brushes ! 

Don  Evaristo. — Well!  Well!  Well!  Stop  your  quizzing, 
you  rascal! 

Doña  Marciala. — And  will  you  remain  with  us  some  time, 
Trino,  now  that  we  have  you  here? 

Trino. — I  won't  be  able  to  stay  very  long,  Aunt  Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala. — That's  what  I  feared. 

Eulalia. — But  why.  Trino.  When  you  go  through  Arenales, 
you  are  a  streak  of  lightning. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  269 

Trino. — That's  the  way  I  hke  to  pass  everywhere. 

Doña  Marciala. — You  are  not  an  evil  stroke. 

Don  Evaristo. — Rather  say,  thunderbolt!  What  kind  of 
nephew  are  you  anyhow.^ 

Trino. — Well,  when  we  have  celebrated  the  anniversary  of 
Papá  Juan,  I  shall  start  for  Paris. 

Eulalia. — For  Paris  no  less! 

Doña  Marciala. — And  what  takes  you  to  Paris? 

Trino. — To  get  married. 

Do7ia  Marciala. — That  is  too  much  for  us  to  swallow. 

Eulalia. — But  have  you  a  sweetheart  in  Paris  í 

Trino. — No. 

Don  Evaristo. — But,  man,  that's  the  first 

Eulalia. — Then  how  are  you  going  to  get  married,  fibber.'' 

Trino. — It's  this  way:  in  a  periodical  from  there,  a  lively 
enough  one  too,  I  have  read  the  advertisement  of  a  stainless 
young  lady,  beautiful,  rich,  sentimental,  and  imaginative  who 
desires  to  marry  a  Spanish  gentleman  of  such  and  such  qualities. 
As  for  these  qualities,  it  seems  to  me  that  she  must  have  known 
me  intimately  or  have  seen  me  in  her  dreaming.  I  have  written 
her  a  letter  full  of  desire  and  emotion,  have  sent  her  my  two 
photographs,  one  in  street  dress,  the  other  in  a  bathing-suit  so 
that  she  will  know  what  to  expect  and  as  soon  as  I  receive  her 
reply  I  shall  take  the  train. 

Doña  Marciala. — ^The  devil  alone  may  believe  what  you  say. 

Eulalia. — You  are  the  biggest  fibber  on  earth. 

Don  Evaristo. — No,  he  is  telling  the  truth.  Why  should  he 
lie  about  it.''  He  is  entirely  capable  of  doing  what  he  says.  Ever 
since  he  became  a  Japanese  pinwheel,  there's  no  knowing  which 
way  he  will  shoot. 

Doña  Marciala. — Very  well,  then.  Trino.  Since  you  are  so 
soft  about  this  French  girl  which  is  something  I  shall  have  to  tell 
the  Lord  in  my  prayers,  you  have  now  got  to  promise  that  you 
will  spend  a  month  with  us  to  take  our  advice. 

Trino. — It's  a  promise.  Aunt,  it's  a  vow,  if  that  isn't  enough. 
Family  life  is  the  one  passion  of  my  existence. 

Doña  Marciala. — I  won't  say  "no"  to  that;  you  may  pretend 
as  much  as  you  please  about  it. 

Trino. — Why  not?  Who  was  there  came  before  me  to  this 
celebration?  Everything  will  be  clear  in  good  time.  I,  wearing 
the  wings  of  a  bird  of  passage  am  really  a  profound  lover  of  family 
life.     The  proof  of  it  is  that  I  have  a  project 


270  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  IHE  CENTENARIAN 

Doña  M árdala. — You  planned  to  stay? 

Trino. — Why  not  ? 

Doña  M árdala. — I  should  say  why  not! 

Trino. — Why  not?  I  have  a  project —  I  am  going  to 
write  a  book,  Aunt  Marciala,  which  will  be  the  most  picturesque 
and  charming  work  you  have  ever  seen. 

Eulalia. — That's  what  it  will  be  if  you  ever  finish  it! 

Don  Evaristo. — I  also  doubt  if  he  will  ever  write  it.  He  may 
call  himself  a  Japanese  but  he  will  not  write  the  book.  The  way 
with  him  is  to  do  the  things  that  take  little  time  and  application 
and  which  show  a  touch  of  novelty. 

Trino. — I  shall  take  pleasure  in  reading  it  to  you  before  I 
send  it  to  the  printer.  "My  Predecessors,"  that's  the  title.  I 
like,  "My  Predecessors." 

Don  Evaristo. — You  borrow  that  title. 

Trino. — Well,  I  notice  you  laugh  at  it. 

Don  Evaristo. — But,  what  do  you  know  about  your  "Pre- 
decessors ? " 

Trino. — Oh,  thank  you,  but  I  know  more  than  you  do,  with 
all  your  books  and  yellowed  parchments!  For  beside  the  private 
studies  I  have  made  without  anybody  knowing,  I  consider  what 
I  find  within  my  own  soul,  the  influences  of  almost  all  of  those 
who  have  passed  before  me. 

Doña  Marciala. — Ave  Maria  Purissima! 

Trino. — Now  listen  to  me —  and  don't  laugh,  Eulalia.  Our 
ancestors  have  been  heroes  and  martyrs,  poets  and  musicians, 
monks  and  nuns,  outcasts  and  adventurers —  For  of  all  these, 
I  have  something  in  myself,  {Growing  excited.)  Of  all!  Didn't 
Papá  Juan  have  an  ancestor  who  went  to  India  to  preach  the 
religion  of  Christ  to  the  savages? 

Doña  Marciala. — Yes,  he  certainly  had. 

Trino. — So  I  too,  thousands  and  thousands  of  times  have 
felt  the  desire  to  stir  with  my  words  the  sleepy  souls,  and  illumi- 
nate them  with  the  light  of  an  art  or  religion.  I  speak  in  com- 
plete seriousness.  At  other  times  I  am  seized — and  you  share 
with  me  in  these  traits — with  warlike  spirit,  with  the  patriotic 
valor  of  that  alcalde  of  Arenales  del  Rio  who  set  fire  to  his  house 
rather  than  surrender  it  to  the  French.  Again,  I  go  and  purchase 
a  violin  and  give  myself  over  for  hours  at  a  time,  like  Uncle 
Gustavo,  seeking  in  the  music  the  intimate  expression  of  my 
sentiments,  the  one  refuge  of  my  soul,  which  would  express  itself 
in  private.     Again  I  dream  of  turning  my  back   on  the     world 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO   271 

like  our  greatgrandfather,  the  sailor.  Other  times  I  seek  like 
you,  order  and  repose,  tranquility  and  lack  of  responsibility — I 
don't  know  how  many  things  I  want  or  how  many  things  I  be- 
come. The  worst  of  the  matter  is  not  in  these  gusts  and  ventila- 
tions where  I  live  at  the  mercy  of  the  spiritual  influence  of  some 
of  my  ancestors,  it  makes  little  difference  whether  I  am  a  mystic 
or  an  incendiary, — the  terrible  part  is  where  for  hours  of  my  life — 
I  say  hours,  I  mean  weeks! — in  which  I  feel  dominating  me  the 
spirit  of  all  my  ancestors  joined  together! 

{All  three  persons  laugh  at  him.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Sakes  alive! 

Trino. — And  then.  Aunt — believe  me  on  my  word!  I  find 
on  earth  no  other  solution  except  to  pass  fifteen  days  in  bed, 
since  it  is  clear  that  a  man  with  this  heap  of  sentiments  and 
tendencies  upon  him  should  not  run  loose  upon  the  streets. 
{More  laughter.) 

Eulalia.— histan,  Trino;  among  our  ancestors  were  there  no 
idiots  ? 

Trino. — None  that  I  know  of. 

Eulalia. — Well,  then,  our  descendants  will  not  be  able  to  say 
the  same. 

Doña  Marciala. — Bully  for  the  first  cousin! 

Trino. — Well,  then,  since  I  appear  an  idiot,  so  much  the 
better.  Anything  is  better  than  passing  one's  life  without  under- 
standing it.  The  soul  of  a  man  is  not  a  mill-stone.  I  detest  those 
who  are  born  good  and  remain  good  forever,  or  those  who  are 
born  bad  and  are  bad  always  without  a  change,  without  a  contra- 
diction of  spirit.  Is  it  not  much  better  and  more  sympathetic, 
dear  Señor,  to  be  ashamed  in  the  morning  and  to  have  no  bash- 
fulness  by  night? 

Do?i  Evaristo. — How  does  that  happen  to  be  more  sympa- 
thetic ? 

Doña  Marciala. — Don't  you  think.  Trino,  that  we  have  had 
enough  discussion.''  Don't  you  want  to  go  and  brush  off"  the  dust 
of  the  road  ? 

Trino. — I  want  to  do  everything  here  to  please  my  Aunt. 
{Embracing  her.)     The  flower  and  cream  of  all  dear  Aunties. 

Doña  Marciala — Are  you  going  to  put  me  into  your  book? 

Trino. — Why  not?  And  I  have  for  you  only  the  finest 
praises.  I  shall  say  that  you  have  the  cleverest  hands  that  are 
known  for  making  honey-fritters  and  crumpets. 


272  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Doña  Marciala. — There  he  mentions  the  crumpets!  Eulalia, 
come  with  me  and  see  where  we  may  put  up  this  troubadour  from 
foreign  lands — who  is  perishing  for  want  of  crumpets. 

Eulalia. — Come,  Auntie,  I  want  you  to  promise  to  ask  me  to 
do  a  great  many  things  for  you. 

Doña  Marciala. — There's  a  long  list  of  things,  don't  worry. 
Wait  here  a  moment.  Trino. 

Trino. — Count  on  me,  Doña  Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala  {To  Eulalia  as  they  go  out  the  door  on  the  left). 
— While  we  are  arranging  this,  let  us  go  up  to  the  second  floor 
and  begin  with  the  table  linen.  I  am  much  bothered  about  that 
matter. 

Trino. — Aunt  Marciala,  say  what  you  will,  takes  the  greatest 
delight  in  these  preparations.     She  is  in  her  glory. 

Don  Evaristo. — Yes,  but  age  is  coming  over  her.  The  years, 
the  pitiless  years —     How  do  you  think  she  looks? 

Trino. — In  perfect  health,  I  should  say.  Better  than  my 
father.  Younger  and  more  attractive  than  the  last  time  I  saw 
her. 

Don  Evaristo. — Merely  an  appearance,  my  boy. 

Trino. — True.'' 

Don  Evaristo. — Merely.  The  poor  creature  is  a  wreck.  The 
day  we  shall  least  expect  it,  will  be  a  break-down. 

Trino. — Surely  you  exaggerate. 

Don  Evaristo. — No,  I  don't  exaggerate,  I  see  it  very  clearly. 
Hence  it  is  that  I  tell  you  two  things  as  one.  I  am  astonished 
with  myself.     I  do  not  notice  in  myself  the  slightest  vv^eakening. 

{Enter  Doña  Marciala.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Trino. 

Trino. — Aunt  Marciala. 

Doña  Marciala. — Come  with  m.e,  for  it  is  better  for  you  to 
select  yourself  the  corner  where  you  will  sleep. 

Trino. — The  place  nobody  else  wants.  Aunt.  So  long  as 
nothing  can  bite  me,  I  can  sleep  in  the  air  shaft. 

Don  Evaristo. — As  soon  as  you  have  washed  and  tidied  up 
com^e  to  my  den.  I'll  wait  for  you  there.  I  shall  show  you  hov-' 
I  keep  my  library.     You  are  going  to  have  a  surprise. 

Trino. — Yes?     Yes? 

Don  Evaristo. — Yes,  I  have  bound  all  my  books  in  equal  size. 

Trino. — How  was  that  possible? 

Don  Evaristo. — Very  easily  done.  The  big  ones  have  regu- 
lar-sized bindings,  the  littlest  ones  have  bindings  equal  to  the 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  273 

largest.  So  for  the  most  part  either  they  fill  the  bindings  or  the 
book  is  lacking;  but  the  effect  is  fine.  And  as  I  hardly  ever  read — 
the  shelves  have  a  beautiful  appearance.  I  shall  expect  you 
there.     {He  goes  out  by  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Trino. — What  a  strange  fancy! 

Doña  Marciala. — Dodderings.^  What  can  you  expect."*  The 
poor  man  has  been  failing  these  three  years.  How  do  you  think 
he  looks  ? 

Trino. — Not  at  all  ill  to  me. 

Doña  Marciala. — Appearances  deceive,  Trino,  he  has  become 
an  infirm  old  man,  a  mere  will  o'  the  wisp. 

Trino. — You  don't  say  sol 

Doña  Marciala. — Thanks  to  my  care,  we  keep  him  on  his 
feet.     God  is  pleased  to  give  me  the  strength  to  take  care  of  him. 

Trino. — So  much  the  better,  Aunt. 

{Enter  Manuel  and  zualks  toward  the  door  on  the  right.  This 
time  he  carries  two  letters.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Where  are  you  going,  Manuel.^ 

Manuel.— To  take  a  letter  to  Don  Evaristo. 

Doña  Marciala. — Is  that  all  there  was  today.? 

Manuel. — One  for  your  father.  He  told  me  that  I  should 
leave  it  here. 

Doña  Marciala. — Let  me  see  it.  (Manuel  hands  it  to  her; 
she  regards  it  with  displeasure.)     I  was  afraid  of  that! 

Trino. — Of  what .? 

Doña  Marciala. — You  shall  soon  learn.  Very  well,  Manuel. 
Take  his  letter  to  the  Señor  and  then  hurry  upstairs  where  you 
are  needed. 

Manuel. — Immediately. 

Doña  Marciala. — Ah,  listen,  if  you  see  my  father,  do  not 
mention  anything  to  him  about  the  letter. 

Manuel. — I  understand.     {He  goes  out  by  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Papá  Juan  is  beyond  all  things. 

Trino. — How  is  that.  Aunt,'' 

Doña  Marciala. — Do  you  guess  what  this  letter  is  about? 

Trino. — About  whom? 

Doña  Marciala. — About  Gabriela. 

Trino. — Gabriela  ? 

Doña  Marciala. — You  can  imagine;  he  has  the  idea  that  she 
should  be  present.  You  know  of  the  scandal  she  created  in 
Sevilla.  It  was  there  that  the  man  deserted  her — she  lived  with 
another — had  a  child —     In  fact.  Trino,  it  cannot  be. 


274  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Trino. — And  Papá  Juan  is  set  upon  it? 

Doña  Marciala. — Papá  Juan!  If  we  had  a  relation  a  jail- 
bird he  would  want  to  have  him  here. 

Trino. — Well,  well!     Poor  Papá  Juan! 

Doña  Marciala. — Come,  let  us  go  upstairs. 

Trino. — Let  us  go.  The  truth  is  Auntie,  that  in  these  mat- 
ters we  must  all  do  what  he  proposes.  {He  goes  out  the  door  on  the 
left  with  Doña  Marciala.) 

(Manuel  passes  for  the  right  door  to  the  left,  laughing.) 

Manuel. — What  a  delicious  trick!  It  was  posted  for  the 
clouds— for  the  letter  is  for  Doña  Marciala  although  it  was  directed 
to  him.  He  is  an  old  man  in  a  thousand!  {He  goes  out.)  {Then 
arrive  through  the  garden  Papá  Juan  and  Currita,  arm  in  arm. 
CuRRiTA  is  pretty,  vehement,  restless,  passionate.  She  has  eyes 
that  are  very  expressive  so  that  one  can  tell  from  her  face  zvhat  she 
is  going  to  do.  If  Trino  should  write  another  book  on  the  descend- 
ants of  Papá  Juan  he  would  devote  his  best  chapter  to  this  first 
greatgrandchild.     She  is  simply  dressed,  with  a  transparent  shawl.) 

Papá  Juan. — Nothing,  nothing,  Currita.  If  you  are  going 
to  keep  getting  up  at  such  late  hours  I  shall  have  to  get  another 
secretary.  Here's  the  whole  morning  gone  in  comings  and  goings. 
And  the  cause  of  all  this  is  in  those  novels  and  fancies  that  you 
follow    when     in     your     bed. 

Currita. — Yes,  Señor.  What  you  say  is  true.  I  stay  awake 
imagining  all  sorts  of  things  and  soon  the  morning  is  there;  I  fall 
asleep  and  I  seem  to  drop  into  a  deep  well.  But  when  morning 
comes,  I  am  awake  to  arouse  the  chanticleer. 

Papá  Juan. — Yes,  Yes!  Less  snapping  of  the  whip  and 
more  driving,  Currita. 

Currita. — And  what  do  you  want  us  to  do  now? 

Papá  Juan. — Now!     Now!     Wait  for  the  mailcart. 

Currita. — ^The  carrier  has  been  here  already;  he  is  passing 
through  the  next  street. 

Papá  Juan. — Very  well,  we  shall  now  see  if  there  is  not  a 
letter  from  Gabriela. 

Currita. — So  it  seems.     Manuel  should  have  left  it  here. 

Papá  Juan. — Alas,  alas!  That  girl,  that  girl! — can  she  mean 
to  disappoint  me! 

Currita. — Shall  we  now  go  to  the  farm  of  Antoñón  as  we  de- 
cided last  night? 

Papá  Juan. — Let  us  go.  Poor  Antoñón!  We  shall  start 
visions  in  him.     You  realize,  a  poor  farm.er —     But,  señor,  he  is 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  275 

a  relative  of  mine;  wherefore  then  should  he  not  sit  at  my  table 
with  the  others? 

Currita. — Ah,  Papá  Juan,  how  good  you  are! 

Papá  Juan. — I  seem  good  to  you  ? 

Currita. — Better  than  holy  water!     {Embracing  him.) 

Papá  Juan. — It  is  not  my  place  to  say  no.  I  know  that  I 
am  good  because  if  it  were  not  so,  Currita,  I  should  not  have  lived 
a  hundred  years.     Have  you  considered  that: 

Currita. — Why  shouldn't  I  consider  it.''  Haven't  you  ex- 
plained many  times?  Those  who  are  not  good  live  with  their 
eye-teeth  sharpened;  they  rage  and  stamp,  their  blood  is  envenom- 
ed and  they  die  before  the  others.  That  is  clearer  than  the  light 
of  day. 

Papá  Juan. — It  is  said  that  it  is  not  enough  to  be  good  to 
reach  the  age  of  one  hundred;  but  he  who  reaches  that  age  is 
good.  Wickedness  is  a  very  sad  thing;  and  with  sadness  it  does 
last  until  one  hundred. 

Currita. — Then  I  am  going  to  be  better  than  anybody  else 
so  as  to  live  longer  than  anybody  in  the  world.  What  have  I  to 
do  to  succeed  in  this,  Papá  Juan? 

Papá  Juan. — Very  simple;  to  live  always  as  though  God  was 
with  you.  Neither  you  nor  I  nor  anybody  can  be  secure  without 
Him.     But  I  have  lived  as  though  I  had  Him. 

Currita. — I  have  the  security  of  having  the  stars  by  night 
and  the  sun  arising  in  the  morning! 

Papá  Juan. — The  sun  arising,  you  have  not  seen  it  today, 
sleepy-head! 

Currita. — I  shall  see  it  tomorrow.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
stars  I  still  can  count.  And  there  is  one  which  is  my  very  own, 
my  own,  no  less. 

Papá  Juan. — I  am  glad  you  watch  the  heavens. 

Currita. — I  have  learned  to  do  so  from  you.  Papá  Juan. 
And  besides  I  have  learned  its  catchword. 

Papá  Juan. — What  ?     Some  nickname  ? 

Currita. — This  is  another  kind  of  catchword.  I  refer  to  you 
whenever  you  see  anything  extraordinary,  anything  that  for 
beauty,  or  goodness  overcomes  the  soul,  wherever  it  may  be  or 
how,  it  may  be,  you  say:  "Lord,  if  God  has  not  made  this,  it 
seems  as  though  He  has  made  it." 

Papá  Juan. — So  I  say  that,  do  I? 

Currita. — And  so  say  I,  looking  at  my  star!     I  always  say 


276  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

with  the  story  as  though  they  were  my  own  thoughts,  those  of  the 
bright  Hght  you  have  told  me  so  often. 

Papá  Juan.— About  what  bright  Hght? 

Currita. — That  of  the  children's  stories.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber.^ In  many  of  the  stories  there  is  a  weary  wanderer  voyaging 
by  night,  who  sees  nothing  but  a  bright  light  afar  off  which  serves 
him  as  a  hope  and  a  guide.  And  he  goes  on  and  on,  and  the 
bright  light  never  comes  nearer;  but  he  sees  it  always  and  because 
he  sees  it,  he  journeys  on  following  his  illusion.  And  you  would 
say  that  in  this  life,  it  is  necessary  to  have  before  us  the  bright 
light  of  the  stories. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  what  an  advanced  pupil  I  have  had!  I 
remember  it  now  I  hear  it  from  your  lips.  One  cannot  do  without 
the  bright  light  of  the  fairy  tales.  It  is  necessary.  I  have  always 
had  it,  and  it  still  abides. 

Currita. — It  is  still  with  you,  Papá  Juan? 

Papá  Juan. — It  still  is  with  me.  Listen.  When  I  was 
seventy-six  years  old,  I  began  to  build  this  house,  in  which  we  are, 
with  the  same  energy  as  a  youth  of  twenty-five.  Everybody 
laughed  at  me;  they  made  a  song  about  m.e 

"The  Señor  Don  Juan  del  Monte 
An  elder  of  seventy  years. 
A  brand  new  house  to  reside  in 
Instead  of  a  tombstone  he  rears." 

And  see.  What  do  you  think?  Now  I  have  lived  here  for  thirty 
years! — and  the  author  of  the  song  is  very  likely  in  the  other 
world  composing  ballads  for  the  devil.     {He  laughs.) 

Currita. — And  the  house,  therefore,  was  the  bright  light! 

Papá  Juan. — The  bright  light!  And  in  these  latter  years 
the  light  has  meant  that  I  should  arrive  at  these  days  we  cele- 
brate, to  give  this  feast  for  all,  to  see  before  me  all  those  who  in 
this  world  are  going  to  follow  after  me.  And  don't  imagine  that 
my  dream  finishes  here;  it  has  not  finished.  I  desire  to  journey 
on  following  the  light  from  afar.  If  he  could  hear  me,  that  song- 
writer of  long  ago,  he  would  compose  another  rhyme  about  me. 

Currita. — And  what  do  you  dream  about  now.  Papá  Juan? 

Papá  Juan. — And  you  ask  me  that,  with  your  eyes  wide 
open  and  almost,  it  would  seem,  making  a  song  on  me  yourself. 
Well  then  hear  my  dream;  I  have  had  sons,  I  have  had  grandsons, 
I  have  had  great-grandsons — and  now  the  notion  seizes  on  me  to 
have  great-great-grandsons. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  277 

Currita. — A  great-great-grandson  ? 

Papá  Juan. — Exactly.  I  have  never  had  one,  but  I  may  hope 
for  one  may  I  not  ? 

Ciirrita. — As  you  say 

Papá  Juan. — For  m.e  to  succeed  in  my  wishes,  I  need  your 
help. 

Currita. — My  help?     More  secretarial  work.^ 

Papá  Juan. — My  plan  is  for  you  to  hunt  up  a  lover  to  fasci- 
nate and  marry  you. 

Currita. — Oh,  oh.  Papá  Juan — you  know  very  well  that  I 
should  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  obliging  you  in  this. 

Papá  Juan. — One  point  at  a  time.  You  are  the  only  one 
from  whom  I  can  expect  anything.  The  other  great-grand- 
children are  still  mere  children.  And  now  the  next  point;  what 
young  chap  in  Arenales  is  attentive  to  you.''  You  see  I  am  getting 
to  the  facts,  and  the  pot  is  started  boiling. 

Currita. — Truly,  there  is  nobody  in  Arenales. 

Papá  Juan. — Then  let  us  see  outside  Arenales. 

Currita  (Sighing). — Yes — outside  Arenales. 

Papá  Juan. — And  why  not.^ 

Currita  {With  graceful  solemnity). — Papá  Juan,  I  am  in  love 
with  a  man  whose  image  I  carry  here.  {Touching  her  forehead.) 
He  is  my  bright  light. 

Papá  Juan. — What.''  What.''  Remember  we  are  dealing 
with  no  novels.  All  the  girls  of  your  age  carry  the  image  of  an 
ideal  man  about  with  them,  and  then  when  one  of  flesh  and  blood 
presents  himself,  they  say  a  prompt  goodbye  to  the  fantastic 
image. 

Currita. — No;  this  one  I  treasure  is  of  flesh  and  bone. 

Papá  Juan. — You  don't  say  so! 

Ciirrita. — Yes,  Señor. 

Papá  Juan. — Then  tell  us,  who  is  he  1 

Currita. — He  does  not  live  in  Arenales. 

Papá  Juan. — But  who  is  he.^" 

Currita. — Trino 

Papá  Juan  {With  astonishment). — Trino! 

Currita. — Yes,  Trino. 

Papá  Juan. — My  great-grandson.'' 

Currita. — His  very  boots  and  shoes.  Papá  Juan! 

Papá  Juan. — But  this  is  no  bright  light!  This  is  a  con- 
flagration!    And  where  have  you  known  Trino.'' 

Currita. — I  don't  know  him. 


278  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Papá  Juan. — What? 

Currita. — No,  I  don't  know  him.  When  he  has  come  at 
times  to  Arenales,  I  have  always  been  away  at  the  convent. 
But  I  have  heard  such  things  of  Trino,  there  and  at  home,  here 
and  everywhere,  that  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  him.  This  is 
the  truth,  Papá  Juan.  I  have  had  to  resist  no  other  man  before 
hearing  of  him.  He  is  the  most  lovable.  One  night  wandering 
around  the  convent  walls  with  a  little  guitar,  he  passed  the  whole 
night  singing  love-songs  to  the  convent-girls.  The  nuns  were 
between  indignation  and  laughter  because  the  songs  were  very 
witty,  and  we  making  believe  to  sleep  bit  the  sheets  in  our  desire 
to  avoid  making  a  public  scandal.  Soon  after  I  learned  that  it 
was  Trino,  and  he  fell  so  into  my  good  graces  that  I  began  to 
treasure  him  in  my  heart.  You  yourself  have  a  hundred  times 
told  me  of  his  adventures,  his  goodness,  his  talents  and  his  grace — 
without  ever  suspecting  that  you  were  putting  the  flame  to  the 
fodder.  You  yourself  have  told  me  that  Trino  would  take  any 
risk  for  a  woman.  This  trait  finished  me  completely.  A  man 
capable  of  taking  any  risk  for  a  woman  is  a  man  of  heart;  he  is 
not  an  ordinary  man. 

Papá  Juan. — And  you  have  another  advantage  still. 

Cvrrita. — What  is  that,  Papá  Juan? 

Papá  Juan. — That  you  know  what  he  is  capable  of — and 
that  it  is  difficult  for  him.  to  do  otherwise.  These  things  are  not 
twice  repeated. 

Currita. — Don't  be  clever  about  it.  Only  a  bad  woman 
would  consider  such  a  thing.     You  see,  rather  than  love  Trino: — 

Papá  Juan. — But  you  don't  even  know  him,  little  one. 

Currita. — Yes,  I  know  him  although  I  hav^e  never  seen  him. 
I  know  him  by  intuition!  When  we  wrote  him  the  other 
day,  Papá  Juan,  a  certain  warmth  seemed  to  go  into  the  letter! 

Papá  JuoM. — Ah,  you  little  rascal.  So  I  have  served  you  in 
a  way  as  a — herald! 

Currita. — And  when  he  answered  that  he  would  come,  and 
I  read  his  letter  to  Aunt  Marciala,  there  was  a  light  over  every- 
thing and  I  was  moved  from  head  to  foot  and  trembled  for  a 
long  time.  If  I  had  worn  feathers  they  would  have  stood  on  end. 
As  I  am  a  woman,  nobody  knew  that  anything  was  happening  to 
me. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  Currita,  Currita,  my  darling,  what  sweet- 
meats you  are  serving  me!     Speaking  to  me  of  Trino,  of  Trino 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  279 

whom  I  have  nursed  on  my  shoulder  ever  since  he  was  so  high, 
who  has  always  done  with  me  whatever  he  desires. 

Currita. — And  you  with  him? 

Papá  Juan. — There  is  nobody  has  any  influence  over  him. 

Currita. — We  are  going  to  see  about  that,  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  Trino!     Trino!     That  imp  of  a  Trino! 

Currita. — Do  you  wish  me  to  fetch  his  portrait  which  they 
have  in  the  other  room? 

Papá  Juan. — Yes,  get  the  portrait.  If  your  eyes  must  be 
satisfied. 

Currita. — I'll  get  it  this  minute. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  Currita,  Currita! 

Currita. — Well? 

Papá  Juan. — Nothing,  nothing,  only  I  am  journeying  toward 
my  bright  light. 

Currita.— Xnd  I,  toward  mine.  Papá  Juan.  I  shall  get  the 
portrait.     {She  runs  out  of  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Papá  Juan. — Currita — Trino —  W^hat  I  had  least  dreamed 
of!  Seeing  that  the  little  one — and  Trino  is  a  bit  dashing,  but — 
{Enters  Trino  from  the  door  on  the  left  moving  toward  the  right  and 
beginning  to  shout  vAth  joy  at  seeing  Papá  Juan.) 

Trino. — Papá    Juan!     Papá    Juan! 

Papá  Juan  {With  sudden  emotion). — Trino!  but  Trino!  You 
here? 

Trino  {Embracing  him  tenderly). — It  is  I,  Papá  Juan,  I!  The 
first  to  arrive! 

Papá  Juan. — Well  I  should  say —  You  have  so  surprised 
me — that —     But — it  is  really  you,  Barabbas? 

Trino. — It  is  I.     Can't  you  see  me  before  you? 

Papá  Juan. — Yes,  yes,  I  see  you  of  course.  But  there  are 
things — there  are  things — I  can't  get  over  it  in  a  moment.  Have 
you  seen  the  little  ones? 

Trino. — No. 

Papá  Juan. — You  haven't  seen  the  little  ones?  But  man, 
{Calling  aloud)  Evaristo !     Marciala ! 

Tri?io. — Ah,  but  are  those  the  little  ones? 

Papá  Juan. — My  children,  of  course. 

Trino. — But  I  have  already  seen  them,  I  have  already  talked 
with  them.     There  was  a  great  reception  here.  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — A  great  reception,  you  say — but,  man,  I — I — 
A  mom.ent  ago  I —  I  assure  you  that  I 

{Enters  Currita  at  this  moment,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  portrait 


28o  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

o/ Trino  which  she  carries  and  without  lifting  her  eyes  from  it,  she 
almost  reaches  the  side  of  the  real  Trino.  She  discovers  him  sud- 
denly and  gives  a  sharp  cry  of  mixed  surprise  and  fear.  She  in- 
stantly hides  the  photograph  behind  her  back.) 

Currita. — Ah ! 

Trino. — Who  is  this?     What  fear  has  come  over  her? 

Papá  Juan. — You  see — you  see —     It  is —     It  is 

Trino. — Are  you  frightened  at  me,  Currita?  For  you  are 
really  Currita. 

Currita  {Trembling) . — And  you  are  Trino. 

Trino. — I  am  Trino.     Currita,  and  how  are  you  ? 

Currita. — Very  well,  Trino  and  you? 

{They  take  hands  and  gaze  at  one  another,  he  smiling  and  she 
enchanted,  but  always  hjding  the  portrait.) 

Papá  Juan  {Gazing  at  them). — Well,  well,  if  the  Lord  has  not 
done  it,  it  seems  like  the  work  of  the  Lord! 

ACT  II 

The  same  scene  as  in  the  First  Act.  It  is  now  afternoon. 
Doña  Marciala  is  seated  demure  and  trajiquil.  Outside  is  Eula- 
lia approaching  the  room  singing  the  famous  Jota  from  ''''LaBrujá.^^ 

Eulalia. — "As  the  birds  keep  singing. 

As  the  birds  keep  singing — — " 
Doña  Marciala. — ^What  can  be  the  matter  with  the  little  one! 
Eulalia.— ^^ The  sorrows  of  their  heart. 
So  I  my  songs  am  bringing 

To  ease  my  grief  apart 

As  the  birds  keep  singing " 

{She  enters  by  the  door  on  the  left.) 
Ah,  you  were  here  all  the  time  ? 

Doña  Aíarciala. — Listening  to  you. 

Eulalia. — Then  you  only  heard  me.     I  have  one  voice  after 
the  other.     Take  the  key  of  the  china  closet.     I  have  poured 
out  the  vanilla  from  the  blue  packages. 
Doña  Marciala. — That's  well. 

Eulalia. — And  Trasquila  and  I  have  spread  it  on  the  stand 
in  the  pantry. 

Doña  Marciala. — Good,  my  child,  good;  the  little  ones  begin 
to  arrive  but  I  will  not  serve  the  children  with  the  best  things. 
Sit  down  a  moment  with  me,  dear. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  281 

Eulalia. — I  must  go  to  the  henhouse  to  see  if  the  gra^  hen 
has  laid. 

Doña  M árdala. — Very  well;  but  first  sit  down  a  while.  You 
have  kept  the  bed  linen  I  gave  you.'* 

Eulalia. — Yes,  Señora,  and  what  an  odor  of  preserved 
quinces  pervades  the  linen  closet! 

Doña  Marciala. — And  the  linen  white  and  spotless.  What 
a  blessing  from  heaven! 

Eulalia. — On  the  lower  shelf  I  have  put  two  sets. 

Doña  Marciala. — You  are  making  excellent  preparations, 
little  one.     Heaven  will  reward  you. 

Eulalia. — Do  you  wish  to  be  quiet.?  But  I  am  more  pleased 
than  a  baby's  rattle!  Surely  some  strange  thing  is  going  to 
happen;  a  star  will  suddenly  appear,  or  we  shall  have  an  eclipse 
or  som.ething  like  that.  To  think  that  m^y  m.other  should  have 
left  me  here  all  this  week,  knowing  her  disposition  and  what  she 
is  likely  to  do 

Doña  Marciala. — Ah,  there's  the  strange  phenomenon — 
Why  look  for  m.ore  ? 

Eulalia. — Think  of  it,  staying  here  for  eight  days  instead  of 
living  at  home  and  merely  coming  here  to  call!  {Leaping  unth 
joy.)     Ah,  Aunt  Marciala!     Let  me  give  you  a  kiss! 

{Enters  Rosa  one  of  the  daughters  of  Carmen  Campos,  by  the 
door  on  the  right.  She  is  in  zcorking  clothes  unth  her  apron  drawn 
hack.) 

Rosa. — Señorita. 

Doña  Marciala. — What  is  it  you  wish? 

Rosa. — There  are  the  room.s  and  quarters  upstairs;  what 
shall  I  do  with  them? 

Doña  Marciala. — Has  nobody  gone  over  them  with  the  mop? 

Rosa. — No,  Señora. 

Doña  Marciala. — Well,  do  it  yourself. 

Rosa. — Very  well.  Another  thing;  will  there  be  anybody 
to  sleep  in  the  garret? 

Doña  Marciala. — I  don't  know  for  certain. 

Rosa. — Then  we  m.ight  give  it  a  hand. 

Doña  Marciala. — That  will  be  all  it  needs. 

Rosa. — Then  I'll  go  upstairs.  {Goes  out  the  door  by  which  she 
entered.) 

Eulalia. — Did  you  say,  Auntie,  that  Uncle  Rafael  is  going 
to  stay  all  night  at  Montem.ayor? 

Doña  Marciala. — I  don't  know  what  he  will  do.     Every  time 


282  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

he  visits  us,  it  is  the  first  thing  he  must  do;  go  to  pay  his  respects 
to  the  Virgin.  Of  course  there  is  such  a  thing  as  personal  Hberty; 
so  first  comes  his  visit  to  Montemayor. 

Eulalia. — How  upset  Uncle  Evaristo  is  going  to  be!  Really, 
it  is  a  regular  caravan!  twelve  children,  no  less! 

Doña  Marciala. — And  all  of  them  perfect  little  imps! 

Eulalia. — How  fat  Uncle  Rafael  has  grown! 

Doña  Marciala. — Ah,  you  would  not  know  him!  He  has 
become  a  dreadful  size.  And  what  a  handsome  figure  he  used  to 
have!  But  he  has  entirely  neglected  himself.  Clearly — when 
two  sleep  in  a  feather  bed —     And  have  you  seen  his  wife! 

Eulalia. — But  she,  poor  thing,  is  very  sweet. 

Doña     Marciala.— But  a  perfect  spider  for  untidiness. 

Eulalia. — Weren't  you  asking  for  Currita.''     Here  she  is. 

Doña  Marciala. — Currita.^ 

Eulalia. — Currita,  yes. 

(CuRRiTA    enters    from    the    garden.) 

Currita. — Good  afternoon.  Auntie  {Kissing  her). 

Doña  Marciala.— Goá  protect  you ! 

Currita. — Good  afternoon,  Eulalia.     {Kissing  her  also.) 

Eulalia. — It  is  God  brings  you. 

Currita.— ]\i&t  now  your  mother  has  been  at  our  house,  they 
tell  me,  and  attacked  my  father  like  a  ragamuffin. 

Eulalia  {Nervously). — Alas,  alas, —  She  is  at  her  old  tricks. 
She  will  tell  me  about  it  tonight. 

Currita. — And  Papá  Juan.^ 

Doña  Marciala. — Papá  Juan.^  He  has  gone  out  with  Trino 
for  a  walk. 

Currita.— Lucky  Trino!  Ever  since  he  arrived  here.  Papá 
Juan  has  forgotten  all  about  me.  I  shall  be  the  gainer  when 
Trino  goes. 

Eulalia.— But  I  not. 

Currita.^Nor  I  either.  It  is  just  my  way  of  talking.  But 
this  m.orning  when  I  came  to  see  Papá  Juan  he  was  out  with  Trino, 
and  this  afternoon  it  is  the  same  with  them  both.  And  it  is  im- 
portant for  me  to  see  Papá  Juan  as  I  have  to  answer  an  important 
letter.     Where  can  they  be  now.^ 

Doña  Marciala. — Child,  I  have  no  idea. 

Currita. — Perhaps  Manuel  might  come  with  me.? 

Doña  Marciala. — But  you  don't  knov/  which  way  they  vv^ent.? 
Answer  the  letter  as  you  think  best.  For  such  affairs  you  hold 
the  confidence  of  the  government! 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  283 

Currita. — I  shall  do  that  and  at  once;  if  Papá  Juan  doesn't 
like  it,  let  Trino  take  the  blame.     I  am  off  to  the  writing  room. 

Doña  Murcíala. — Don't  get  mixed  up  there. 

Curriia. — No,  I  shall  not  get  mixed  up.  Come  with  me, 
Eulalia.  Did  I  leave  my  shawl  here.''  No.  Yes.  No.  Yes, 
I  did  leave  it. 

Doña  Marciala. — If  you  are  sure 

Currita. — Well,  come  with  me.     I  wish  to  tell  you  something. 

Eulalia. — About  yourself.? 

Currita. — No,  about  yourself. 

Eulalia.— M.t .? 

Currita. — Yes,  you.  Good,  it  is  also  mine —  Come  let  us 
go  together.     Come. 

Eulalia. — All  right,  let  us  go. 

{They  go  out  by  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Doña  Marciala. — That  Currita  is  as  nimble  as  the  tail  of  a 
lizard!  And  the  other  innocent  would  not  change  her  days  here 
for  a  golden  cage!  {She  raises  herself  from  her  chair.)  Ah,  Lord, 
Lord! 

{Enters  Don  Evaristo  through  the  garden  and  in  a  very  bad 
humor.) 

Don  Evaristo. — As  for  me,  why,  let  somebody  else  take  care 
of  them! 

Doña  Marciala. — Kello!     Back  so  soon.? 

Don  Evaristo. — Yes,  and  alone. 

Doña  Marciala. — Alone.?     But  Rafael  and  the  children.? 

Don  Evaristo. — I  left  them  there.  Let  them  smear  over 
their  parents  whose  duty  it  is  to  bear  it.     Over  me,  no! 

Don  Marciala. — But  Evaristo,  by  the  Twelve  Apostles! 

Don  Evaristo. — But,  Marciala,  by  the  Eleven  Thousand 
Virgins! 

Doña  Marciala. — See  the  way  your  years  are  affecting  you! 

Don  Evaristo. — Years  or  no  years 

Doña  Marciala. —Take  a  seat,  man,  take  a  seat,  you  are  very 
tired. 

Don  Evaristo. — I  won't  sit  down  as  I  am  too  warm  and  would 
catch  a  chill. 

Doña  Marciala. — Then  remain  standing. 

Don  Evaristo. — You  have  no  idea  of  the  extravagance  and 
impishness  of  those  children!  Oh,  what  a  journey  we  have  had 
together!  They  went  in  the  coach  and  complained  because  they 
could  not  go  on  foot;  they  jumped  out  on  the  ground  and  after  a 


284  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

minute  cried  to  be  taken  back  into  the  coach.  Oh,  what  a  party! 
On  arriving  at  Montemayor,  Rafael  began  by  setting  out  to  steal 
oranges;  and  his  wife  tumbled  carelessly  on  the  grass,  showing 
me  her  shins,  in  which  I  had  no  interest  whatever;  and  nobody 
thought  for  a  moment  of  the  Virgin's  shrine;  and  one  of  the  chil- 
dren, who  surely  is  made  of  pure  gold,  read  a  sign  on  a  garden-gate 
which  said  "Entrance  is  forbidden"  and  instantly  with  two  or 
three  of  the  others  ran  in,  and  began  to  gambol  about.  When  I 
told  this  to  their  father,  he  replied  that  his  children  always  wanted 
to  do  anything  that  was  forbidden.  The  end  of  it  was,  Marciala, 
that  I  could  stand  no  more,  so  I  told  them,  smiling  like  a  rabbit, 
"You  stay  here  enjoying  yourselves  as  though  at  home.  I  have 
something  to  do  at  Arenales."  And  turned  my  back  on  them 
and  hurried  home.  I  took  a  place  on  the  fruit  wagon  coming 
from  Gasparon  as  comfortably  as  I  could.  The  driver,  good 
fellow,  let  me  down  at  the  gate.  Hereafter,  Marciala,  never 
arrange  for  me  to  escort  anybody. 

Doña  Marciala. — I  only  did  it  so  that  you  might  get  a  bit  of 
fresh  air.     Now  sit  down. 

Don  Evaristo.— M-Y  Lord,  what  a  family!  What  disorder! 
What  kind  of  bringing-up!  I  don't  recall  one  nice  thing  of  all 
they  did;  although  for  the  start  they  were  looking  for  adventures. 
Ah!  one  of  the  smallest  of  the  imps  began  to  chew  some  greens 
that  I  knew  were  poisonous.     And  its  father  only  laughed! 

Doña  Marciala. — Are  you  not  convinced  that  these  upsets 
are  not  suited  to  you,  Evaristo? 

Don  Evaristo. — How  I  wished  you  might  be  there  to  see  it, 
Marciala!  You  would  surely  have  had  apoplexy!  (Sighing.) 
What  kind  of  human  beings  are  they!  What  terrible  abuses 
they  commit!  {Showing  Doña  Marciala  his  empty  cigar-case.) 
Look,  and  see  how  Rafael  has  left  me  empty;  he  kept  lighting  one 
with  the  other. 

Doña  Marciala.- — I  am  glad  he  did.  You  will  smoke  less  and 
be  all  the  better  for  going  without. 

Don  Evaristo. — There  is  more  harm  in  your  sweetmeats  that 
you  are  always  eating  on  the  sly. 

Doña  Marciala. — Bah !     Bah ! 

Don  Eavristo. — Is  there  any  news? 

Doña  Marciala. — Nothing. 

Don  Evaristo. — And  Papá  Juan? 

Doña  Marciala. — Out  on  the  street. 

Don  Evaristo. — With  Currita? 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  285 

Doña  M árdala. — With  Trino. 

Don  Evaristo. — Isn't  all  this  coming  and  going  bad  for  Papá 
Juan  ? 

Doña  Marciala. — Of  course  it  is.  You  should  have  heard  the 
scolding  I  gave  him  this  morning.  But  it  is  no  use  to  talk  to 
him.     He  does  exactly  what  he  wishes. 

Don  Evaristo. — God  bless  him.     And  Eulalia.'* 

Doña  Marciala. — Wild  with  delight.  She  is  in  your  writing- 
room. 

Don  Evaristo. — In  my  writing-roomJ  And  what  has  taken 
her  there.? 

Doña  Marciala. — Currita. 

Don  Evaristo. — But  why  Currita  in  my  writing-room?  Con- 
found it!  I  shall  have  to  lock  it  up  with  seven  keys!  If  I  only 
knew  where  she  would  put  things  down,  she  is  so  upsetting — 
{He  goes  toward  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Full  of  his  manias!  Oh,  Lord!  Let  us 
look  for  cups  to  hold  the  quince  jelly. 

{She  goes  out  by  the  door  on  the  left.  Papá  Juan  and  Trino 
are  seen  approaching  slowly  through  the  garden,  smiling  and  chatting.) 

Papá  Juan  {After  he  has  arrived  in  the  salon). — Well,  well, 
you  are  always  at  your  tricks.  Trino. 

Trino. — Are  you  not  tired  a  bit,  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — 11  No! 

Trino. — But  I  am.     {He  sits  down.) 

Papá  Juan. — And  I  also  {He  then  sits  down).  It  has  been 
one  long  day  of  rejoicing.  Ah,  have  you  told  Manuel  to  hitch  up 
the  carriage  and  go  to  wait  for  the  pastor? 

Trino. — Yes,  Señor,  and  Manuel  is  already  gone. 

Papá  Juan. — Did  you  enjoy  our  walk  together? 

Trino. — Very  much.  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — It  is  one  of  my  favorite  walks  in  Arenales. 
The  banks  of  the  river  are  so  delightful. 

Trino. — They  really  are.  So  full  of  mystery  and  charm. 
Even  restless  spirits  like  mine  recognize  their  peace  and  comfort. 
I  would  at  times  recline  in  the  shade  of  elm  trees  and  the  sound  of 
the  passing  waters  has  brought  to  me  the  voice  of  some  woman 
chaste  and  serene. 

Papá  Juan. — Hello  there!  Is  Doña  Francisca  Saavedra  del 
Monte  Guevara  y  Pérez,  Cañas,  Garzón,  Cedillo  y  Lozano  at 
home  ? 

Trino. — Who  is  this  lady.  Papá  Juan? 


286  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Papá  Juan. — Currita ! 

Trino. — Ah,  Currita,  I  had  not  recognized  her.  And  where 
did  you  get  the  idea  that  she  might  be  here  ? 

Papá  Juan. — Where  you  should  also  get  it;  what  are  your 
eyes  for?     Look,  isn't  that  her  shawl. 

Trino. — True  {He  gets  up  takes  it  and  admires  it.)  Currita's 
shawl!  It  is  a  new  one;  I  have  never  seen  it  before.  What  is 
more  beautiful  than  a  shawl!  It  has  the  double  charm  for  me 
of  being  both  aristocratic  and  popular! 

Papá  Juan.- — And  of  belonging  to  Currita. 

Trino. — What."* 

Papá  Juan. — I  have  spoken  an  aside  as  they  do  in  the  come- 
dies.    You  are  not  supposed  to  hear  me. 

Trino.— ^uX.  I  did  hear  you.  {He  puts  down  the  shawl  and 
zvalks  up  and  down  thinking.  A  pause.  Enter  Currita  hy  the 
door  on  the  right.,  a  little  breathless^ 

Trino. — Currita ! 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  Currita! 

Currita. — So  you  have  come  back?  » 

Trino. — We  have  come  back.     What  has  happened  to  you? 

Currita. — Uncle  Evaristo  has  been  scolding  me.  My,  what 
a  bad  humor  he  is  in  and  how  he  lectured  me! 

Papá  Juan. — Because  of  what? 

Currita. — Because  I  went  into  his  writing-room  to  send  off 
a  letter — we  shall  discuss  it  together  you  and  I — and  I  had  begun 
to  draw  an  allegory  of  love  through  all  the  ages;  from.  Adam — 
down  to  Trino. 

Trino. — ^To  me  ? 

Currita. — To  you. 

Papá  Juan. — What  an  idea!     And  why  down  to  Trino? 

Currita. — Because,  as  you  say,  Trino  is  a  man  of  our  times. 
You  know  you  said  it  with  good  reason.  I  neither  know  it  nor 
deny  it.  Suddenly  arrives  Uncle  Evaristo  and  saw  me  using  his 
colored  pencils  and  looked  at  me  as  though  I  were  the  demon 
him.self. 

Papá  Juan. — But  go  on,  tell  us  about  the  allegory! 

Currita. — I  destroyed  it  in  anger. 

Trino. — What  a  pity! 

Currita. — And  it  was  a  work  of  art.  No  doubt,  a  chef- 
d'oeuvre! 

Papá  Juan. — Without  doubt.  Think  of  the  hands  that 
wrought     it! 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  287 

Currita. — You  see,  I  put  Adam  first  completely  alone  seek- 
ing distraction  in  Paradise;  and  in  a  little  while  God  came  to 
borrow  one  of  his  ribs  to  make  a  companion  for  him.  And  Adam 
stood  ready  with  his  arms  outstretched.  He  seemed  to  say  "Such 
being  so,  O  Lord,  take  all  my  ribs  at  once!" 

(Papá  Juan  and  Trino  laugh.) 

Papá  ]uan. — What  nonsense  you  strung  together! 

Trino. — But  this  is  no  subject  for  a  sketch  on  a  piece  of 
paper  but  for  a  large  painting  in  oil.  Listen,  Currita,  this  inter- 
ests me  greatly;  how  did  you  paint  me.^ 

Currita. — I  had  not  come  to  painting  you  at  all. 

Trino. — But  just  now  you  said  otherwise. 

Currita. — No,  I  said  you  were  the  end  of  the  Allegory. 

Papá  Juan. — Very  well;  but  how  did  you  plan  to  depict  him.'* 

Currita. — He  will  be  angry  if  I  tell. 

Trino. — Angry?  with  you.^     Impossible! 

Currita. — You  won't  be  angry,  really.^ 

Trino. — How  can  you  ask  me  seriously  if  I  will  be  angry! 

Currita. — Well  then  I  planned  to  have  you  very  white  with 
eyes  very  dark,  looking  at  the  portrait  of  a  woman  and  clasping 
your  hands.     Now  are  you  angry  .^ 

Trino. — Not  at  all. 

Papá  /zí«w.— Still  she  pays  you  no  compliment. 

Currita. — Do  you  think  so.^     Then  pardon  me. 

Trino. — But  I  think  nothing  of  it  except  I  wonder  that  your 
memory  is  so  good 

Currita. — But  I  do  remember —  But  don't  worry  I  shall 
never  speak  of  it  again. 

Papá  Juan. — That  is  what  I  advise  you.  Because  nobody 
likes  to  have  his  stupid  doings  recorded. 

Trino. — It  doesn't  matter  to  me.  And  still  less  because  it 
is  Currita  who  refreshes  my  memory.  I  assure  you  that  it  does 
not  bother  me  to  recall  it,  on  the  contrary  it  pleased  me  alto- 
gether. As  time  goes  on,  I  realize  how  stupid  and  impossible  I 
have  been.  Think  of  what  a  sorrow  my  life  would  be  at  the  age 
of  twenty  because  a  woman  was  a  deceiver! 

Currita. — Was  a  deceiver?  {She  puts  her  hand  to  her  hair  to 
cover  her  concern^ 

Trino. — To  think  the  life  of  a  man  is  to  be  judged  by  an 
hour  of  a  day  or  even  a  year  of  it! 

Papá  Juan. — You  are  surely  right,  Trino,  surely  right. 
I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.     It  gives  me  a  great  pleasure  to 


288  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

consider  that  life  runs  on.  Life  is  not  the  winter  alone;  the 
springtime  returns.  I  tell  you  so,  I  who  have  seen  the  flowers 
of  a  hundred  springtimes  and  have  heard  the  birds  sing  through 
a  hundred  summers. 

Trino. — You  are  right,  Papá  Juan,  certainly  right. 

Papá  Juan. — And  every  time  I  heard  them  sing  and  every 
time  the  flowers  blossomed  it  seemed  to  me  it  was  forever.  Never 
have  I  asked  in  my  life  "Why"  and  "Wherefore."  Now  it  is 
Fate,  Trino.  Life  runs  along,  the  springtime  returns —  Man 
dies  but  once,  but  all  the  mornings  he  is  born  again  in  opening 
his  eyes. 

Trino. — True;  it  is  true. 

Papá  Juan. — To  kill  oneself  for  a  woman — when  each  one 
has  her  favorite 

{He  looks  at  Currita  ivho  is  greatly  embarrassed.) 

Trino. — Keep  quiet,  for  Heaven's  sake! 

{Meanwhile  he  keeps  looking  at  Currita  whose  embarrassment 
is  extreme). 

Papá  Juan. — And  I  warn  you  that  this  trifling 

Currita  {On  the  dejence). — What  are  you  going  to  say.'' 

Papá  Juan. — Something  to  my  advantage,  Currita;  am  I 
not  the  eldest  person  present.''  This  artist  of  the  Allegory  of 
love.  Trino,  is  a  great  admirer  of  that  experience  of  yours. 

Trino. — Yes.'' 

Papá  Juan. — Yes. 

Trino. — Let  m.e  see.  Will  you  explain  this  admiration,  Cur- 
rita .'' 

Currita. — Oh,  come,  you  are  both  resolved  to  embarrass  me! 

Trino. — Explain  it  then  in  your  own  way. 

Currita. — You  must  not  take  it  exactly  in  that  way.  I  shall 
tell  you  all  frankly  without  further  requests.  I  am  greatly 
pleased  with  what  you  did.  Greatly  pleased  indeed,  Señor.  It 
is  a  trait  that  speaks  to  me  of  many  things  not  too  common  in 
these  days.  You  do  not  know  what  it  means.  Trino,  to  keep 
one's  years  and  one's  illusions  and  to  live  in  a  village  like  this 
when  the  greatest  hope  as  the  bells  ring  three  o'clock  is  for  four 
to  ring — in  hopes  that  it  will  soon  be  five.  Ah,  happy  steeple  in 
the  countryside!  Never  by  any  chance  does  it  ring  out  for  a  fire! 
And  I  always  hoping.  Trino,  for  something  out  of  the  ordinary. 
There  you  have  the  reason  why  your  acts — which  you  now  dis- 
avow, inspire  me  with  such  great  sympathy.  Aside  from  that, 
of  course,     I  rejoice  that  nobody  has  injured  you. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  289 

{All  three  are  silent.  Papá  Juan  looks  mischievously  from 
Trino  to  Currita.  To  break  the  embarrassing  silence^  Eulalia 
enters  through  the  door  on  the  right.  She  carries  over  her  arms,  the 
zvhite  and  folded  table  linen.) 

Eulalia. — Currita. 

Currita. — What  do  you  wish? 

Eulalia. — Aunt  Marciala  is  calling  you. 

Currita. — For  what.^ 

Eulalia. — She  wants  to  ask  you  something. 

Currita. — What  thing,  do  you  know.'' 

Eulalia. — She  hasn't  told  me.     Are  you  going.'' 

Currita. — Yes,  of  course  I  am  going  at  once.  Really  she 
didn't  say 

Eulalia. — Truly,  no.     (Eulalia  goes  out  by  the  door  on  the 

Currita  (Not  zinshifig  to  go). — What  can  Aunt  Marciala  want.f* 

Papá  Juan. — Girl,  go  at  once  and  ask  her  and  resolve  your 
doubt     immediately. 

Currita. — You  are  right.  I  am  going.  {She  approaches  the 
door  on  the  right  as  if  each  step  cost  her  an  effort.  She  goes  out.  A 
paused 

Trino. — Papá  Juan. 

Fapá  Juan. — What  now  t 

Trino. — I  am  anxious  to  have  this  feast  of  yours  over. 

Papá  Juan. — To  have  it  pass,  no;  to  have  it  arrive.  Five 
days  more  before  it  arrives,  no  more,  and  yet  I  sometimes  have 
an  idea  of  dread  that  the  day  will  never  come  for  me. 

Trino. — Oh! 

Papá  Juan. — Death,  also  a  woman,  has  its  tricks  to  play! 
But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  going  to  play  the  game  like  a  man. 
But,  why  are  you  anxious  to  have  my  celebration  over.'' 

Trino. — So  as  to  leave  here. 

Papá  Juan. — What's  the  matter.''     Don't  you  like  our  beds.'' 

Trino.— Fapá.  Juan,  joking  apart,  I  have  a  revelation  to 
make  you.     I  am  in  love  with  Currita. 

Papá  Juan. — What's  that  you  say.'' 

Trino. — Yes,  fatally  in  love!     Romantically!     Desperately! 

Papá  Juan. — That's  all  right!  What  I  would  like  to  know 
is  why,  then,  do  you  want  to  go  away.  If,  for  instance,  you  had 
fallen  in  love  wúth — say,  with  Aunt  Filomena  who  is  a  widow, 
your  despair  would  be  all  right,  but  with  Currita — ! 


290  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Trino. — The  trouble  is,  Papá  Juan  in  my  being  so  enamored 
— and  I  don't  wish  to  be  in  love.  I  don't  wish  it,  no!  And  it  is 
so  much  worse,  because  she  is  Currita,  a  girl  so  lovely,  so  full  of 
light,  so  gracious,  so  dreamy 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  you  would  prefer  if  it  had  been  Aunt 
Filomena  ? 

Trino. — Try  to  understand  me.  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — It  is  very  difficult,  Trino. 

Trino. — By  what  right,  with  what  a  conscience  can  I  call  this 
little  one  to  the  enchanted  palace.'  Up  to  now  my  love  affairs 
have  been  so  tragic —  To  what  woman  can  I  say  "I  love  you," 
who  will  not  have  to  pay  for  it  later  in  her  tears? 

Papá  Juan. — What  loves  are  you  speaking  of.'  Have  you 
ever  been  in  love  before.^ 

Trino. — A  thousand  times. 

Papá  Juan. — To  say  a  thousand  times  is  to  say  never. 
Trino,  do  not  confound  love  with  what  is  not  love  except  in  name 
and  the  shadow.  Let  the  poets  and  lovers  of  all  colors  say  what 
they  will,  for  me  love  is  only  the  continuance  of  life.  When  a 
man  and  a  woman  feel  it  and  look  on  one  another  with  eyes  of 
love,  if  you  will  listen — you  will  hear, — I  don't  know  where — 
from  afar  off — as  it  were  in  space — perhaps  more  illusion  than 
reality — a  voice  which  says  or  sings,  "I  wish  to  live  I — Bring  me 
to  life!" — Have  you  heard  that  voice? 

Trino. — Never,  Papá  Juan.     Nor  do  I  look  to  hear  it. 

Papá  Juan. — You  are  about  to  hear  it. 

Trino. — That  is  to  say,  according  to  you,  that  love  must  be 
fruitful  or  it  is  no  love. 

Papá  Juan.— Like  the  kiss  of  the  sun  to  the  earth.  More- 
over, what  you  have  been  doing  all  these  years,  what  I  have 
done  with  all  your  kind,  what  almost  all  m.en  are  doing — is — to 
play  at  love. 

Trino  {Smiling). — ^To  play  at  love? 

(Manuel  appears  through  the  gardeji.) 

Manuel. — Don  Juan,  may  I  come  in? 

Papá  Juan. — Come  ahead,  Manuel. 

Manuel. — Antoñón,  he  from  the  farm  of  Chorrito,  is  here 
and  says  he  has  something  to  say  to  you. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  Antoñón!     The  good  Antoñón! 

Trino. — What  Antoñón  is  this? 

Papá  Juan. — This  Antoñón  is  a  great  fellow;  our  own  relative 
and  a  farmer.     I  shall  take  you  to  see  his  lands. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  291 

Trino. — Our  relative  did  you  say? 

Papá  Juan. — Our  relative,  yes;  the  son  of  Gumersindo 
Alvarez  del  Monte,  a  first  cousin  of  my  father.  He  kept  a  tavern 
which  was  formerly  on  Christ  Street.  Well,  the  tavern  is  gone, 
so  is  its  master,  so  is  the  street,  and  so,  they  say,  is  Christ!     Ah! 

Alanuel. — Señorito,  what  answer  shall  I  take  to  the  man? 

Papá  Juan. — Yes,  that  is  true — I  am  distracted.  Have 
him  com.e  in. 

Manuel. — Very  well.     {He  goes  out  through  the  garden.) 

Trino. — I  shall  leave  you  with  Antoñón  and  go  for  a  turn 
under  the  patio.     Goodbye  for  the  present. 

Papá  Juan. — Don't  stay  long.  Trino. 

{He  goes  out  the  door  on  the  left.  At  the  sarae  moment,  Currita 
appears  from  the  door  at  the  left  and  is  filled  zvith  disappointment 
to  see  him  go.) 

Currita. — Well,  there 

Papá  Juan. — The  dance  is  on!     Antoñón — Antoñón 

Currita. — Papá  Juan  I 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  Currita.  Why  did  Aunt  Marciala  call 
you  ? 

Currita. — It  was  rather  serious.  To  see  if  she  couldn't  draw 
me  out  to  say  something.     But  I  was  too  keen  for  Auntie. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah?     What  was  that,  my  secretary? 

CwrrzVíí.— Gabriela  has  written  to  me. 

Papá  Juan. — To  you  ? 

Currita. — Yes,  to  me.  Señor.  To  write  her  an  answer  I  have 
been  at  the  desk  of  Uncle  Evaristo.  The  poor  thing  is  surprised 
that  you  continue  to  invite  her  when  she  has  already  twice  ac- 
cepted your  invitation. 

Papá  Juan. — She  has  posted  me  two  letters? 

Currita. — So  she  says.  x\nd  the  truth  is  that  the  two  letters 
have  reached  here  and  have  been  juggled  away. 

Papá  Juan. — What?  But  these  tricks  of  hand  don't  please 
me  at  all!  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  the  youngsters;  I  don't  like 
ir — I  don't  like  it 

{At  this  moment  ]Maxuel  leads  in  Axtoñóx,  zi'hom  zve  know 
already  hy  descriptions.  He  is  evideiitly  all  dressed  up  for  a  solemn 
occasion.) 

Antoñón. — The  peace  of  God  be  with  you.  A  thousand 
good  afternoons. 

Papá  Juan. — Come  in,  come  in,  good  Antoñón.  How  are 
you  ? 


292  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Antoñón. — Well,  and  how  are  you,  Don  Juan? 

Papá  Juan. — As  you  see  me. 

Antoñón. — And  you,  Señorita  ? 

Currita. — Very  well,  Antoñón.  And  your  wife  and  the 
children,^ 

Antoñón. — They  are  all  holding  their  own. 

Currita. — And  the  little  ones.'' 

Antoñón. — All  rough  on  their  shoes. 

Currita. — Give  them  my  best  regards. 

Antoñón. — I  shall  do  so. 

Currita. — ^And  so,  goodbye. 

Antoñón. — God  bless  you. 

Manuel  ( To  Currita  zvho  is  leaving  by  the  same  door  as  Trino 
has  used). — Señorita  Currita. 

Currita. — What  is  it.'' 

Manuel. — I,  nothing;  but  the  servant  from  your  house  has 
been  here  saying  your  mamma  desires  to  see  you  at  home  im- 
mediately. 

Currita. — At  my  house.'' 

Manuel. — Yes,  Señorita. 

Papá  Juan. — Has  anything  happened.'' 

Currita. — Did  he  say  anything  had  happened.'' 

Manuel. — No  accident,  I  am  sure  because  the  boy  was 
laughing.     But  he  said  to  tell  you  not  to  lose  a  minute. 

Currita — Very  well.  Señor.  What  can  it  be.?  Every  day 
has  its  cloud.  {Putting  on  her  shawl)  I  am  sure  every  day  has 
som.e  sort  of  cloud;  but  how  much.?  There  are  days  that  look 
like  nights.  I  shall  be  back  in  a  short  while.  Papá  Juan. 
Good  day.     {She  goes  out  by  the  garden.     Manuel  after  her.) 

Antoñón. — Good  day —  There  is  something  of  the  angels 
about  that  daughter  of  Don  Joaquin. 

Papá  Juan. — She  is  an  angel,  an  angel. 

Antoñóji. — Without  ceasing  to  be  very  much  of  a  lady.  She 
has  the  flavor  of  the  radishes  of  my  garden;  and  they  are  very 
fine,  it  is  true,  but  have  a  sharp  tang  to  them. 

Papá  Juan. — Well,  take  a  seat,  take  a  seat,  Antoñón. 

Antoñón  {Obedie^itly).- — With  your  permission. 

Papá  Juan. — And  put  down  your  hat. 

Antoñón. — It  doesn't  bother  me. 

Papá  Juan. — Give  it  to  me.  {He  takes  it  and  puts  it  on  a 
chair.) 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  293 

AntoñÓ7i  {After  looking  at  Papá  Juan  from  head  to  foot). — 
And  is  it  true,  Don  Juan  del  Monte,  that  you  really  have  passed 
one  hundred  years  or  is  it  all  a  false  report? 

Papá  Juan. — Go  ask  the  priest  who  christened  me. 

Ajitoñón. — And  where  shall  we  find  the  priest? 

Papá  Juan. — On  high  I  hope,  these  many  years.  The  Good 
Lord  has  been  very  patient  with  me,  that's  the  truth  about  me 
and  him.  His  name  was  Don  Manuel  Martinez  y  Argote.  A 
relative  he  said  of  the  poet  Don  Luis  Gongora  y  Argote.  Here 
they  always  called  him  Father  Rat-trap"  because  he  was  the 
inventor  of  a  deadly  machine  against  the  pest  of  cheese  boxes.    Ah ! 

Antoñón. — And  you  have  forgotten  nothing! 

Papá  Juan. — The  way  with  all  you  people  who  are  good, 
Antoñón? 

Antoñón. — Ah,  there  is  no  time  left  us  to  be  bad. 

Papá  Juan. — It  was  a  perfect  pleasure  to  see  your  place  the 
other  evening.  Your  farm  is  a  rare  treat.  I  envy  it;  mine  is 
nothing  to  it. 

Antoñón. — But  the  same  sun  warms  both.  Only  you  keep 
yours  to  delight  your  eyes,  while  I  look  to  mine  to  feed  my  family. 

Papá  Juan. — That's  it;  that's  it.  The  year  has  not  been  a 
bad  one  for  either  of  us. 

Antoñón — Thanks  be  to  God  there  has  been  rain — and  you 
know,  "Rain  in  May,  bread  all  the  year  round." 

Papá  Juan — Exactly.  And  "A  May  very  rainy  in  the 
barren  plain  and  the  fertile  field."  Well  then,  Maria  has  told 
you  why  I  visited  you  the  other  evening?  Will  you  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  having  you  and  all  your  fam.ily  here  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  to  dine  in  celebration  of  my  hundredth  anniversary(ANTOÑÓN 
draws  himself  up  in  silence?)     Why  this  silence!     Come,   come — 

Antoñón. — Señor  Don  Juan  del  Monte,  there  have  always 
been  rich  and  poor  in  this  world.  How  to  be  rich  is  a  difficult 
thing,  but  how  to  be  poor  is  also  difficult.  And  I  am  poor  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  rich.  For  I  have  more  money  than  many  rich 
people,  even  if  I  am  poor.  And  beside  the  matter  of  money  there 
is  the  old  song — 

"When  the  poor  man  has  been  drinking, 
'What  a  drunkard!'  then  they  say; 

When  the  rich  man  has  been  drinking, 
'Ah,  the  dear  Señor  is  gay!'  " 


294  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

My  friend  Alonzo,  the  husband  of  Carmen  Gampes,  pro- 
phesies that  there  is  a  day  coming  when  the  poor  will  be  rich — he 
has  these  ideas  which  to  me  seem  sHghtly  mixed.  Very  good; 
I  swear  to  you  that  when  that  day  arrives  and  I  am  still  alive, 
I  will  refuse  to  be  rich  and  will  remain  poor.  Because  it  is  more 
valuable  to  be  poor,  being  rich  than  not  being  rich — being  poor — 
You  understand  me.^ 

Papá  Juan. — After  a  fashion,  Antoñón  ,  after  a  fashion 

Antoñón. — Well,  I  only  shall  explain  it  to  myself. 

Papá  Juan. — Then  I  have  understood  all  you  mean  to  say. 

Antoñón. — Don't  you  see,  Señor  Don  Juan,  that  our  flounces 
of  calico  won't  look  well  am-ong  the  laces  and  jets  of  the  others. 
Don't  you  realize  that  at  your  table,  the  table  of  a  rich  man,  my 
wife  and  children  are  going  to  look  like  sheep  in  a  strange  pasture.'' 

Papá  Juan. — But  why  .^ 

Antoñón. — Because  the  world  puts  us  on  one  side  and  you 
people  on  the  other,  in  spite  of  all  our  relationships.  That  is 
what  I  tell  m.y  friend  Alonso. 

Papá  Juan. — Well,  with  permission  of  your  friend  and  you, 
dear  Antoñón,  the  celebration  of  my  hundredth  birthday  will 
show  the  world  my  views  on  the  subject.  On  that  day  will  you, 
Antoñón,  come  with  your  wife  and  children;  and  will  you  come 
to  do  honor  to  my  house  with  all  your  calicoes  and  your  hands 
hardened  by  labor. 

Antoñón. — Señor  Don  Juan  del  Monte 

Papá  Juan. — Señor  Don  Antoñón  of  the  Farmland,  what  is 
your  answer.'' 

Antoñón. — You  remember  that  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  came 
on  earth  to  settle  such  business  as  this 

Papá  Juan. — No  m.ore  of  your  philosophy,  Antoñón.  You 
will  not  be  the  only  poor  relation  who  v/ill  sit  down  with  me  on 
the  day  of  the  festival. 

Antoñón. — No  1 

Papá  Juan. — No.  There  is  to  be  present  a  grand-nephew, 
who  is  a  servant  of  the  King.  You  should  read  the  letter  he  has 
sent  me. 

Antoñón. — But  then  he  does  not  live  in  Arenales.  In  these 
places.  Señor  Don  Juan  del  Monte,  everybody  knows  everybody 
else,  and  they  criticize  a  great  deal  and  according  as  one  believes 
more  or  less  the  world  is  greatly  upset  if  a  poor  man  for  once  sits 
down  at  the  table  of  a  rich  one. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  295 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  the  world  will  not  be  so  upset  as  you 
imagine.  And  if  it  is  upset,  let  it  be  upset  for  all  I  care.  This 
world  amounts  to  nothing.  We  shall  build  up  another  on  its 
ruins  in  vvhich  it  will  never  trouble  anybody  if  the  rich  take  dinner 
with  the  poor. 

Antoñón. — These  are  the  manias  of  my  friend  Alonso. 

Papá  Juan. — Possibly.  But  your  friend  talks  of  things  in 
a  drunken,  crazy  manner  and  I  talk  of  them  calmly  and  sanely. 
And  your  friend  would  like  to  go  about  murdering  people  and  I 
only  embracing  them.  There's  where  the  difference  is.  So  come, 
give  me  your  hand  and  promise  not  to  be  absent  at  my  birthday 
party.     {He  shakes  hands  with  him  zvarmly.) 

Antoñón. — How  good  you  are,  Don  Juan  del  Monte!  You 
appear  to  be  a  poor  man  like  myself. 

Papá  Juan. — Because  the  same  sun  is  v/armihg  us, — your 
garden  as  well  as  mine.  Promise  me  what  I  ask  (Antoñón  is 
silent),  prom.ise  me.^ 

Antoñón. — The  trouble  is  I  am  not  alone. 

Papá  Juan. — On  your  farm,  you  are  the  only  boss. 

Antoñón. — As  for  the  farmer  there's  no  trouble.  But  don't 
you  see  there's  the  farmer's  wife  to  be  considered.  Aly  wife  does 
only  what  I  wish  her  to  do,  which  is  the  same  as  saying  what  she 
w^ants  to  do  herself;  but  there  are  things  in  which  it  is  necessary 
to  consider  her.  I  shall  tell  you.  There  is  between  you  and  me 
a  family  relationship  which  affects  my  wife  and  all  the  world  in 
this  manner.  {He  brings  the  points  of  his  fingers  of  each  hand 
together  at  the  points.) 

Papá  Juan. — You  don't  need  to  mention  it. 

Antoñón. — I  don't  know  the  reason,  nor  does  Maria  know  it 
either,  nor  for  that  matter  does  it  amount  to  a  radish  to  her  or 
me;  but  there  is  a  certain  lady  hereabouts  who  never  passes  in 
front  of  my  door  without  spitting  on  the  ground,  and  stamps  it 
down  to  make  it  worse. 

Papá    Juan. — Ah,     how     graceful     she     must     be! 

Antoñón. — You  think  it  graceful,  eh.-*  But  to  my  wife  it  is 
a  great  offence  and  more  than  once  I  have  raised  my  weeding- 
hook  to  throw  it  at  the  head  of  this  fine  lady.  Because,  Don 
Juan  del  Monte,  the  water  of  the  saliva  which  is  poisonous  is  very 
bad,  but  that  she  should  stam.p  it  down  is  beyond  bearing. 

Papá  Juan. — I  am  very  glad,  my  good  fellow,  very  glad. 
Because  on  my  birthday  you   will  have  your  revenge.     When 


296  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENETENARIAN 

she  sees  you  here,  don't  you  know,  that  all  the  spitting  she  has 
done  at  your  doorway — will  come  back  and  choke  her. 

Antoñón. — Very  well.  Will  you  favor  me  in  another  point 
which  I  am  about  to  ask  you.  The  family  from  the  farm  at 
Chorrite  will  also  be  here? 

Papá  Juan. — Surely,  man,  surely. 

Antoñón. — One  thing  I  advise — if  you  will  pardon  me — that 
you  have  the  table  long  and  that  Doña  Filomena  and  my  wife 
be  placed  at  different  ends. 

Papá  Juan. — Very  well,  Antoñón.  It  is  possible  that  as 
my  friend  predicts,  there  is  coming  a  day  when  all  men  will  be 
able  to  shake  hands  together — as  for  the  women — that  day  is  a 
long  way  off. 

Papá  Juan. — Well ! 

Antoñón. — Good  day  and  many  thanks.  Señor  Don  Juan 
del  Monte. 

Papá  Juan. — A  safe  journey!  I  shall  accompany  you  to 
the  gate. 

Antoñón. — Señor  Don  Juan,  I  have  never  been  so  honored — 

(As  they  go  out  through  the  garden  together,  they  encounter 
Doña  Filomena.) 

Papá  Juan. — Oh,  Filomena!     Good  afternoon. 

Doña  Filomena. — Good  afternoon.  {On  seeing  Antoñón, 
she  spits  and  steps  on  the  saliva.) 

Antoñón. — You  saw  that.^ 

Papá  Juan. — Go  now,  my  friend,  I  shall  come  back  immedi- 
ately, Filomena. 

Doña  Filomena  {Indignantly). — And  he  is  going  about  with 
the  farmer!  And  I  am  left  alone!  Soon  they  will  say — soon 
they  will  say  that  as  far  as  I —  Every  day  I  find  myself  more 
and  more  on  the  ash-heap.  (Eulalia  is  heard  from  the  left  sing- 
ing the  same  so7ig  as  at  the  beginning.  Shortly  after  that  she  enters.) 
Is  it  my  daughter  that  is  singing  so?  Very  well.  She  knows 
what  evil  looks  and  manners  are  kept  for  her  poor  mother.  {To 
Eulalia,  who  has  come  in)  Sing,  daughter,  sing!  (Eulalia 
who  has  entered  very  gaily  without  suspecting  what  she  was  to  en- 
counter is  suddenly  gloomy  merely  at  the  suspicion  that  her  mother 
is  going  to  make  a  scene  again.) 

Eulalia. — Hello,  Mamma.     When  did  you  get  here? 

Doña  Filomena. — Go  on,  go  on  with  your  singing!  Don't 
make  any  pretence.  I  see  that  you  are  very  happy  to  be  relieved 
of  the  presence  of  your  mother. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  297 

Eulalia. — No,  Señora;  I  am  ver^  happy,  but  not  because  of 
that. 

Doña  Filomena. — Yes,  daughter,  yes,  because  you  are  away 
from  me.  And  at  the  same  time  your  sisters  are  at  home  dancing 
with  joy  because  I  have  gone  out  of  the  house. 

Eulalia. — That  is  possible;  but  don't  blame  me  for  it. 

Doña  Filomena. — How  then  to  explain  it.'' 

Eulalia. — You  have  just  come  from  the  house  of  Currita.'' 

Doña  Filomena. — Straight  from  her  house.  A  fine  row  I 
raised  there ! 

Eulalia. — And  why.'' 

Doña  Filomena. — For  the  same  reason  that  I  am  going  to 
raise  one  here. 

Eulalia. — Mamma ! 

Doña  Filomena. — Don't  call  me  "Mamma!"  This  is  a  very 
serious  business. 

Eulalia. — What  business  ? 

Doña  Filomena. — When  I  tell  you  that  you  won't  under- 
stand. I  will  tell  you  everything.  Call  your  aunt  and  uncle 
im.mediately. 

Eulalia. — Uncle  Evaristo  is  taking  a  nap  upstairs. 

Doña  Filo7nena. — Then  wake  him  up.     And  Trino.'* 

Eulalia. — In  the  patio,  reading  a  novel. 

Doña  Filomena. — Some  protestant  book  I'll  be  bound.  But 
you  had  better  have  him  come  in  also.  We  shall  see  what  opinion 
is  in  his  revolutionary  mind. 

Eulalia. — Revolutionary.''     But,  what  about,  what  about .^ 

Doña  Filomena. — I  repeat  that  you  will  not  understand  about 
it,  Eulalia,  go  and  do  what  I  tell  you. 

Eulalia. — I  am  going,  Mamma,  I  am  going.  Would  to 
heaven  your  disposition  would  only  change! 

Doña  Filomena  {Turning  on  her  quickly). — What's  that? 

Eulalia. — Would  to  heaven  your  disposition  would  only 
change!  That's  what  I  said.  What  shame  it  is  for  me  to  see 
you  always  fighting  like  cats  and  dogs  with  all  the  world! 

Doña  Filomena. — What.^ 

Eulalia. — Always  a  row  and  a  rumpus;  you  suspect  every- 
body with  bad  intentions;  you  come  into  a  place  and  bring  a 
whirlwind  with  you.  And  I  am  greatly  pained  by  it — because 
you  are  my  mother — and  I  as  you  say  so  often — the  daughter  of 
your  heart.     And  a  daughter  likes  to  hear  her  mother  well  spoken 


298  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

of —     And  when  you  turn  your -back — the  things  they  say  about 
you! 

{She  goes  out  by  the  right,  getting  ready  to  cry.) 

Doña  Filomena. — She  is  silly,  completely  silly!  It  is  time 
I  came  and  put  an  end  to  the  chatter  of  these  pygmies.  It  cer- 
tainly is! 

(Papá  Juan  returns.) 

Papá  Juan  (Singing). — 

"When  Ferdinand  the  Seventh 
His  overcoat  would  wear — " 

Doña  Filomena. — But  tell  me,  Papá  Juan;  what  visit  is  this 
from  the  farmer?  Will  he  serve  the  vegetables  on  the  day  of  the 
celebration? 

Papá  Juan. — What  a  notion!  He  is  coming  to  sit  down  with 
us  at  the  feast. 

Doña  Filomena  {Astonished). — The  farmer! 

Papá  Juan. — The  farmhand,  yes!  Why  not,  isn't  he  re- 
lated to  us  ? 

Doña  Filoinena. — He  is  coming  to  dine  with  me  and  my 
daughters  ? 

Papá  Juan. — Yes,  woman;  and  I  have  asked  him  not  to  bring 
the  watchdog  along.     You  see! 

Doña  Filomena. — But  this  is  to  be  a  family  gathering.  Papá 
Juan,  and  not  a  camp-meeting  of  negroes. 

Papá  Juan. — No,  there  is  no  negro  coming.  We  have  no 
black  blood  in  the  family — that  is,  as  far  as  I  know! 

Doña  Filomena. — Well  then,  it  is  time  to  tell  you  that  if  the 
farmhand  and  his  crew  are  here  I  shall  shine  by  my  absence. 

Papá  Juan. — I  tell  you  that  the  farmer  is  coming  and  that 
you  also  will  be  here. 

(Eulalia  passes  from  the  door  on  the  right  to  the  door  on  the 
left,  still  in  grief,  and  throwÍ7ig  at  Papá  Juan  a  look  of  entreaty.) 

Doña  Filomena. — The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  I  will  not 
come,  nor  my  daughters  either! 

Papá  Juan. — Your  daughters  shall  come  and  you  with  them. 

Doña  Filomena. — You  are  mistaken.  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  J^ian.■ — I  am  not  mistaken,  foolish  woman.  Look 
here,  I  know  you  since  your  mother  brought  you  into  the  world, 
and  I  knew  your  mother  since  her  mother  brought  her  into  the 
world.  Do  you  think  now,  Filomena,  that  you  are  coming  or 
not  coming  to  feast  with  the  others. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  299 

Doña  Filomena. — I  am  silent.     I  am  silent.     You  are  the 
stronger — I  am  silent. 

Papá  Juan  {After  making  a  little  flourish  zvith  his  jeet^  sing- 
ing as  before) . — 

"The  bombs  that  they  were  shooting 
Were  crashing  everywhere — " 
Aside  from  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  with  us  and  the  displeasure 
you  have  had  in  meeting  Antoñón  here,  to  what  do  we  owe  the 
honor  of  your  agreeable  presence.'' 

Doña  Filomena. — You  will  soon  know.     I  have  summoned 
the  family  council. 

Papá  Juan.— Ah.,  then .'' 

Doña  Filomena. — And  that  freethinker  Trino! 

P«ptí/«<3  7¿.— Freethinker.^ 

Doña  Filomena. — Yes,  I  want  him  here  also.     I  have  a  name 
to  put  before  the  house. 

Papá  Juan. — What  name.? 

Dona  Filomena. — That  of  one  in  disgrace. 

Papá  Juan. — Whose .? 

Doña  Filomena. — Gabriela's. 
.  Papá  Juan. — You  are  going  to  bring  up  Gabriela's  name.'' 
I  shall  be  delighted,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  too  have  some- 
thing to  say  about  Gabriela  to  all  the  family.  Ah,  here  comes 
my  daughter.  And  the  freethinker,  as  you  call  him.  {Enter 
from  the  door  on  the  left  Doña  AIarciala  and  Trino.) 

Doña  Marciala. — Well,  well,  Filomena. 

Doña  Filomena. — Good  day,  Marciala. 

Trino. — Aunt  Filomena,  and  how  are  you.? 

Doña  Filom,ena. — Very  well,  and  you,  sir? 

Trino. — You  call  me  sir.     Since  when  did  we  grow  so  formal.? 

Doña  Filomena. — Since  the  day  you  arrived  here  and  did  not 
salute  me. 

Trino. — I  ? 

Doña  Filomena. — You. 

Trino. — I  think  it  was  the  other  way. 

(Doña  Marciala  makes  a  sign  to  Trino  not  to  go  on.) 

Doña  Filomena. — I  noticed  that  signal. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah ! 

Doña  Marciala. — You  wished  to  speak  to  us,  your  daughter 
told  us.? 

Doña  Filomena. — Let  us  wait  for  Evaristo. 


300  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

{Enters  Don  Evaristo  hy  the  door  on  the  right,  he  is  half 
asleep  and  in  very  bad  humor.) 

Don  Evaristo. — Here  is  Evaristo.  Wliat  do  you  want  with 
Evaristo?     I  smell  something  burning! 

Doña  Filomena. — When  you  are  ready  you  may  salute  us, 
my  good  man. 

Don  Evaristo. — Why  have  you  called  me,  you  hypocrite.'' 

{Everybody  sits  dozvn.     A  paused 

Papá    Juan. — Are     we     all     here? 

Doña  Filomena. — All  of  us. 

Don  Evaristo. — I  feared  in  my  sleep  that  some  bad  news  was 
coming. 

Doña  Filomena. — When  the  honor  of  the  family  is  at  stake, 
you  ought  to  open  your  eyes. 

Doña  Marciala. — What  are  you  talking  about? 

Doña  Filomena. — Papá  Juan  knows  already  . 

Papá  Juan. — And  Papá  Juan  is  going  to  speak  the  first  word. 
Look  here,  Marciala!  Look  here,  Evaristo!  Haven't  letters  from 
Gabriela  arrived  here?  (Don  Evaristo  looks  at  Doña  Marciala 
and  both  remain  silent^     I  see  that  they  have  arrived. 

Doña  Filomena. — Hum! 

Don  Evaristo. — Marciala,  explain  to  Papá  Juan 

Doña  Marciala. — Papá  Juan  we  have  humored  you  in  every- 
thing up  to  this,  because  your  wishes  ought  to  be  respected  by  one 
and  all  of  us,  but  as  regards  the  matter  of  Gabriela,  it  is  not 
possible  for  us  to  consider  it. 

Don  Evaristo. — It  is  impossible! 

Papá  Juan. — Well!  Well!  {To  Don  Evaristo)  and  why 
is  it  impossible? 

Don  Evaristo  {In  confusion,  looking  at  Doña  Marciala).— 
Because  it  is  impossible. 

Doña  Filomena. — That's  what  I  say.  Because  it  outrages 
my  very  being.  It  is  not  possible  in  the  first  place  because  it 
amounts  to  putting  m.e  on  the  streets;  it  is  not  possible  because 
even  if  there  are  no  young  girls  in  this  house  to  lose  their  first 
blush  with  certain  people,  there  are  to  come  here  among  others 
my  beloved  daughters,  and  my  children  are  not  to  rub  shoulders 
with  disreputable  people. 

Papá  Juan. — As  for  disreputable  people 

Doña  Filomena. — Disreputable,  Papá  Juan,  disreputable 
people.     What  does  the  atheist  say  about  it? 

{All  except  Papá  Juan  turn  confusedly  about.) 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  301 

Trino. — Where  is  the  atheist? 

Doña  Filomena. — It  is  very  easy  to  pretend  not  to  under- 
stand ! 

Papá  Juan. — Don't  let  us  waste  time  in  fooHshnesses. 

Doña  Filomena. — We  don't  lose  time.  My  last  word,  Papá 
Juan,  is  that  if  Gabriela  comes  here  for  the  celebration,  you  will 
not  see  me  here,  nor  my  daughters  either. 

Papá  Juan. — We  shall  have  here  the  family  of  the  farmer, 
and  I  count  on  you  and  your  daughters  and  on   Gabriela  as  well. 

Doña  Filomena. — Heavens,  what  horror! 

Doña  Marciala. — No,  Papá,  no.  This  time  Filomena  has 
reasons. 

Doña  Filomena. — Ah,  why  this  time  only.^  Is  it  to  say  that 
I  am  seldom  right.'' 

Doña  Marciala. — It  is  to  say  that  this  time  you  are  right  in 
what  we  are  talking  about.  Consider  it  well.  Papá.  Call  to 
mind  what  the  poor  Gabriela  has  done  in  her  foolishness  or  her 
badness,  as  you  will  have  it  just  and  reasonable,  but  do  not 
expect  us  to  sit  down  at  table  with  her.  Not  for  ourselves  alone 
but  for  our  neighbors,  for  society.  You  know  the  scandal  that  is 
public  about  her  among  the  people?  Haven't  you  thought  of 
the  disagreeable  experiences  she  will  have  to  undergo  in  coming 
here  ? 

Don  Evaristo. — You  are  right,  Marciala. 

Doña  Filo?nena. — And  I  not? 

Don  Evaristo. — Yes,  woman,  you  have  said  the  same  thing 
as  she. 

Doña  Filomena. — Ah! 

Papá  Juan. — But  not  one  of  you  all  is  right.  Nor  you,  nor 
you,  nor  you. 

Doña  Marciala. — Papá  Juan 

Doña  Filomena  {Turning  towards  Trino). — And  we  have  not 
heard  the  opinion  of  the  anarchist? 

Trino. — I?     Am  I  the  anarchist,  Señora? 

Doña  Filomena. — Yes,  you,  you.  Who  else  could  I  mean 
but  you  ? 

Trino. — Well,  the  opinion  of  the  anarchist,  as  you  have 
called  me,  is  in  two  parts;  the  first  is  to  place  a  bomb  under  your 
chair 

Doña  Filomena. — ^The  impudence! 

Trino. — Made  of  sawdust  only;  nothing  more  than  for  a 
comic  shock.     And  the  second  is  that  the  fault  of  Gabriela,  if  it 


302  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

should  happen  tobe  a  fault  at  all,  does  not  merit  the  punishment 
which  all  of  you  think  of  giving  it,  excepting  Papá  Juan.  I  am 
much  more  indulgent  than  the  rest  of  you  with  the  faults  that 
arise  from  love. 

Doña  Filomena. — That  is  clear.  Since  you  do  not  believe  in 
God. 

Trino. — Where  did  you  come  across  that  error.'* 

Doña  Filomena. — It  is  the  height  of  heresy  to  defend  a  woman 
who  is  not  married  and  who  has  a  child. 

Trino. — Come,  consider  those  who  are  married  and  never 
have  any. 

Doña  Filomena. — Bah,  humbug,  and  more  humbug! 

Papá  Juan. — Trino  has  spoken  very  truly.  Gabriela  has 
not  deserved  the  punishment  which  you  plan  for  her.  Gabriela 
has  a  son  because  God  wished  her  to  have  it.  In  the  trouble  of 
Gabriela  there  was  neither  outrage  nor  perversion.  To  bring  her 
here  may  save  her  from  harm;  to  refuse  to  have  her  as  if  she  were 
lost,  is  to  condemn  her  for  perversity  and  is  not  just.  Gabriela, 
therefore,  must  come  to  the  family  gathering.  {A  movement 
among  the  others.)  Do  not  deny  me  this !  The  snows  of  a  hundred 
years  have  fallen  on  my  head  and  it  is  my  wish  to  see  all  of  you 
united  for  a  day,  rich  and  poor,  good  and  bad,  happy  and  un- 
happy—  Would  not  all  this  opposition  be  childish  if  at  the  end 
of  another  hundred  years  we  were  to  come  together  again.'' 

Trino. — Come,  come.  Papá  Juan.  Do  not  give  way  to  so 
much  feeling.  The  matter  is  settled.  What  you  wish  shall  be 
done.     Is  it  not  so,  Aunt  Marciala.'' 

Doña  Marciala. — Yes,  Trino,  yes.  Yes,  Papá.  Yes.  Let 
us  not  speak  about  it  any  more. 

Trino. — You  command;  we  obey  blindly;  because  it  should  be 
so.  To  your  celebration  will  come  anybody  you  invite.  If  you 
wish  all,  it  will  be  all.  And  when  I  celebrate  my  one  hundredth 
birthday  all  will  come,  except  perhaps,  Aunt  Filomena,  I  imagine. 

Doña  Filomena. — I'll  attend  to  my  part  of  that! 

Trino. — And  now  I  shall  go  and  see  if  Manuel  has  not  hitched 
up  the  carriage  as  you  told  him  to,  that  we  may  go  together  and 
wait  for  the  Pastor. 

Papá  Juan. — Go,  my  good  fellow,  and  see.  It  is  true  the 
Pastor  is  coming  today.     Let  us  be  oflf,  be  ofi! 

Trino. — On  the  minute. 

(CuRRiTA  arrives  through  the  garden  as  Trino  is  leaving.) 

C  urrita. — Hello ! 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  303 

Trino. — Hello! 

Currita. — Good!  {Remarking  all  the  group.)  What  faces 
are  these?     What  is  the  matter? 

Doña  Filomena  (Rising). — The  same  old  matter,  child,  what 
always  happens.  Poverty  is  a  crime.  From  the  very  first  I  have 
known  that  it  was  the  scheme  here  to  throw  me  and  my  children 
into  the  streets.     And  now  it  happens. 

Currita. — How  is  that? 

Doña  Marciala. — Where  are  you  going,  woman? 

Doña  Filomejia. — To  get  the  darling  child  of  my  bosom. 
{She  goes  out  by  the  door  on  the  left,  suppressing  a  sob.) 

Currita. — Ah,  what  a  plague  that  woman  is! 

Don  Evaristo. — She  is  the  very  dainty  of  the  family. 

Doña  Marciala. — As  for  the  little  one,  she  must  not  take  her 
away.  She  mustn't  think  of  doing  so.  I  shall  see  to  that.  I 
shall  see  to  that.     {She  goes  out  after  Dona  Filomena.) 

Currita  {To  Don  Evaristo  who  seems  altogether  confused.) — 
But  what  has  happened.  Uncle  Evaristo? 

Don  Evaristo. — Alas,  Currita!  How  my  opinion  on  these 
things  has  changed!  I  shall  certainly  die  before  your  Aunt 
Marciala!     {He  goes  out  throtigh  the  door  on  the  right.) 

Currita. — But  what  has  happened.  Papá  Juan? 

Papá  Juan  {With  childish  glee). — Something  to  them,  Currita, 
to  them.  But  as  for  me,  I  am  quite  content.  Gabriela  in  going 
to  come,  Antoñon  is  going  to  come  with  his  sons — everybody  is 
coming —  Do  you  not  see  my  delight?  I  shall  be  able  to  talk 
to  all  of  them — to  see  all  of  them  joined  together — all — all — 
Now  I  am  off  with  Trino  to  call  for  the  Pastor. 

Currita. — Haven't  you  gone  yet? 

Papá  Juan. — We  are  going  now;  don't  you  worry  about  it. 
As  for  Trino — Trino  is  going  to  stay  with  us 

Currita. — Yes  ? 

Papá  Juan. — Yes.     (Trino  returns.) 

Trino. — Come  ahead.  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — All  right.  Trino,  I  am  ready. 

Currita. — What  has  been  the  trouble  among  everybody? 
Won't  you  tell  me?     Have  they  been  discussing  Gabriela? 

Trino. — Yes,  it  was  about  Gabriela,  but  there  was  no  trouble. 

Only  miserable  selfishness  and  prejudices  even  in  the  minds  of 

the  best.     Poor  Gabriela!     But  they  were  routed  with  a  single 

blow.     There  is  only  one  law  here,  the  will  of  Papá  Juan!     And 

f  he  through  old  age  were  not  able  to  impose  it,  here  there  is  still 


304  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Trino  who  represents  in  himself  all  the  ancestors  we  have  had, 
and  no  matter  how  many  voices  that  should  be  raised  they  must 
obey  and  be  silent.  Papá  Juan's  celebration  will  be  held  just  as 
he  wishes  it;  but  if  anybody  must  be  absent  from  it,  we  will  never 
allow  the  most  Unhappy  of  our  relatives  to  be  excluded 

Papá  Juan. — Well  said,  Trino.     Well  said ! 

Currita. — Well  said! 

Trino. — Papá  Juan  had  to  have  this  discussion  with  us,  and 
we  have  had  to  respect  his  wishes. 

Currita. — It  was  better  for  Papá  Juan  to  start  the  discussion. 

Trino. — You  are  right.  I  am  so  well  disposed  to  that  that 
if  Papá  Juan  who  adores  you  and  loves  you  so  much  were  to  order 
me  to  knock  down  the  church  tower  that  bothers  you,  to  make 
bullets  of  its  bells  and  to  shoot  myself  some  day  or  other  to  give 
you  some  novelty,  I  should  do  it  all  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

Papá  Juan. — Well ! 

Currita  {Laughiiig). 

Currita. — You  are  crazy.  Trino,  you  are  crazy!  But  it  is  a 
delightful  form  of  insanity! 

Trino. — Let's  be  off.  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — Let's  be  off. 

Trino. — Au  revoir,  Currita. 

Currita. — Ju  revoir. 

Papá  Juan  {Leaning  on  the  arm  of  Trino  through  the  garden). 
— I  am  going  to  see  them  all — them  all —  All  are  coming!  I 
will  speak  to  them  all — them  all 

Currita  {Watching  them  depart). — Ah,  bright  light  of  the 
fairy  tales!     Happy  is  he  who  has  you  in  the  heart! 

ACT   III 

Scene  the  same  as  the  former  acts.  It  is  in  the  afternoon. 
Carmen  Campos,  alo7ie  on  the  stage,  engaged  in  arranging  the 
furniture  which  is  somezvhat  in  disorder.  From  the  rear  of  the 
garden,  far  off  is  heard  a  manly  voice  singing  the  following  Copla. 
Carmen  stops  to  listen. 

FoiV^.— "The  Señor  Don  Juan  del  Monte 

Has  finished  his  hundredth  year! 
Heaven  grant  him  as  many  blessings 
As  he  has  shed  flowers  here. " 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  305 

Carmen  Campos. — That  man  sings  very  well!  And  where 
has  he  got  all  the  songs  he  sings?  He  has  sung  more  than  ten 
already!  {By  the  door  on  the  right  suddenly  appears  Alonso,  her 
husband.  By  his  appearance  it  is  evident  that  he  has  been  cele- 
bratÍ7ig  with  his  friends  the  feast  of  Papá  Juan,  in  the  tavern  where 
they  gather.) 

Alonso. — Ah,  here's  the  one  we  were  looking  for! 

Carmesí. — Alonso!  Why  do  you  come  here?  Who  has  let 
you  in  ? 

Alonso. — Manuel  is  a  fellow-churchman  of  mine. 

Carmen. — How  could  Manuel  have  made  such  a  mistake! 
Who  has  given  Manuel  permission  to  let  you  in? 

Alonso. — The  solemnity  of  this  day.  Alonso  Parra,  the 
husband  of  Carmen  Campos  must  today  shake  the  hand  of  Don 
Juan  Del  Monte.  Whether  you  like  it,  or  don't  like  it,  even  if 
a  whole  flock  of  the  clergy  tried  to  stop  me. 

Carmen. — Look  here,  Alonso,  don't  begin  with  your  foolish- 
ness. Doña  Marciala  is  the  first  who  doesn't  want  you  coming 
through  her  garden;  she  is  afraid  of  you.  And  I  am  even  more 
afraid  of  your  conduct.  So  turn  about  by  the  way  you  came  and 
don't  disturb  us  at  the  feast. 

Alonso. — But,  is  my  presence  an  offence?  If  my  person 
offends 

Carmen. — What  offends  is  the  load  of  wine  you  bring  with 
you. 

^/o7iJO.— Today  is  a  great  day!  That  is  what  I  thought  as 
I  was  drinking  water  in  the  garden. 

Carmen. — That  is  a  fine  story  of  yours. 

(Manuel  also  enters  by  the  door  on  the  left  and  goes  toward 
the  garde?i.  In  his  hands  are  two  large  bunches  of  cyperus  tied 
with  colored  ribbons.) 

Manuel. — What  noise  is  this!     Eh,  my  friend  Alonso? 

Carmen. — Are  the  young  ladies  going  to  dance? 

Manuel.— Ml  the  youngsters.  The  very  smallest  are  form- 
ing partners.     Such  a  garden  of  lovely  faces  they  make! 

Carmen. — The  prettiest  is  the  little  sister  of  Don  Trino. 

Manuel. — She  is  a  beauty.  But  there  are  also  the  daughters 
of  Antoñón  our  comrade. 

Alonso. — Who?  Those  of  our  comrade?  The  three  little 
girls  of  our  comrade  are  the  glory  of  Arenales  del  Rio.  Blood 
of  our  lordly  race! 


3o6  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Manuel. — Let  me  advise  you,  friend  Alonso,  to  pick  out  the 
prettiest  one  now;  one  never  knows  what  day  will  happen! 

Alonso. — There  will  have  to  happen  another  day  before  that; 
how  to  get  rid  of  one  who  is  in  the  way. 

Carmen. — You  are  both  drunkards  without  shame.  What 
would  become  of  you  if  I  were  not  with  you,  you  grave-digger? 

Manuel. — Don't  get  excited  over  so  small  a  thing!  I  am 
going  to  get  the  castanets.  {He  goes  out  through  the  garden. 
At  the  rear  of  the  garden  the  same  voice  sings  another  copla.  Alonso 
and  Carmen  stop  to  listen.) 

Voice. — "Very  good  that  man  must  be 

Who  would  live  one  hundred  years 
Don  Juan  del  Monte  good  is  he 
Whose  birthday  now  appears." 

Carmen. — My,  but  he  sings  well! 

Alonso. — He  is  good  singer  that's  true.  He  has  political 
views  too,  and  sings  well.  I  don't  come  to  make  trouble.  Let 
me  pass,  for  I  only  want  to  say  four  things,  little  things,  you  hear 
me.'' — but  very  pleasant  things,  very  appropriate.  And  they 
will  shake  hands  with  me,  don't  you  see.'*  For  today  is  the  day 
when  the  sun  shines  on  Arenales  as  it  never  shone  before  and 
Alonso  Parra  who  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  revolutionist 
puts  aside  his  ideas  to  enter  this  house,  hat  in  hand  and  with 
proper  respect.     Do  you  understand,  woman .'' 

Carmen. — Partly.     But  I  will  not  let  you  pass, 
Alonso    (To  Antoñón   who   appears  through   the  garden). — 
Friend  Antoñón  do  you  see  this  woman."* 

Antoñón. — Friend  Alonso,  what  wind  brought  you  here.^ 
{The  voice  of  a  woman  starts  singing  at  the  rear  of  the  garden 
a  copla  of  seguidillas  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  number  of  castanets 
heard  at  the  same  distance.) 

Voice. — "My  garden  of  roses 

I  watch  it  fore'er; 
For  the  thorns  are  unable 

To  guard  it  with  care. 
And  mine  yes  they  are  weary 

In  keeping  it  all 
For  the  petals  will  never 

Grow  faded  and  fall." 

{During  the  copla  the  dialogue  goes  on.) 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  307 

Alonso. — The  wind  of  the  fraternity  of  mankind.  And  I 
say  it  to  you  in  rousing  tones  so  that  you  will  know  I  am  not 
joking. 

Antoñón. — But  don't  you  know  that  the  louder  you  talk  the 
more  of  a  joke  it  is  ? 

Carmen. — You  and  everything  we  hear  from  you. 

Alonso. — Be  still  for  a  moment,  Carmen  Campos.  And  you 
too,  listen,  friend  Antoñón.  I  was  down  at  the  tavern  with  four 
of  the  most  advanced  of  my  friends  and  talking  over  the  matter 
of  today's  celebration  in  this  house  and  showing  them  how  today 
the  sun  shines  in  a  new  way,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  as  well: 
that  today  there  are  no  vengeances  nor  disputes;  that  even  Alonso 
Parra  modifies  his  ideas  in  honor  of  Don  Juan  del  Monte.  Be- 
cause Don  Juan  del  Monte  has  seated  at  his  table,  to  celebrate 
his  hundred  years,  mxore  than  eighty  people  of  all  colors,  so  as  to 
make  them  equals  for  the  moment;  and  Don  Juan  del  Monte  has 
scattered  donations  and  money  throughout  Arenales  so  that  the 
houses  of  the  poorest  are  enjoying  them.  And  so  well  have  I  put 
it  all  that  all  the  band  have  sent  me  here  saying  these  words: 
"Present  yourself  to  him  and  say  as  well  you  know  how  this  good 
news,  to  surprise  the  Señor,  that  the  palms  of  victory  today  be- 
long to  him. " 

Carmen. — Only  you  and  your  friends  didn't  count  on  me  to 
be  the  sentinel. 

{The  voice  of  the  same  woman  is  heard  singing  another  copla. 
The  dialogue  continues  during  her  singing.) 

Voice. — "What  flower  is  on  your  bosom 

That  gives  such  sweet  perfume.? 
Spice-wood  of  India, 

Or  Rosemary  in  bloom.? 
What  odor  of  delight — 

Spice-wood  of  India, 
Rosemary  so  white. " 

Antoñón. — They  made  no  mistake  in  letting  you  in.  For 
although  you  have  had  plenty  to  drink  and  are  quite  under  the 
weather,  there  are  some  here  who  are  worse  off.  I  am  just  now 
escaping  a  woman  who  is  so  full  that  she  drives  me  crazy. 

Alonso. — You  hear? 

Antoñón. — I  cannot  stand  them.  Carmen  Campos.  People 
who  when  they  have  hardly  smelt  a  jar  of  wine  are  mad  to  drink 
it,  run  against  my  grain.     With  wine  or  without  wine  I  am  always 


3o8  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

the  same  man!  And  I  take  care  to  be  no  different  here.  God 
bless  Don  Juan  del  Monte! 

Carmen. — There  was  never  anybody  like  him  or  half  like  him, 
in  Arenales,  Antoñón. 

Anioñón. — Not  only  in  Arenales  but  in  any  place,  Carmen 
Campos.  For  a  Don  Juan  del  Monte  is  not  born  every  day,  nor 
does  God  keep  him  alive  a  hundred  years  to  give  such  a  feast. 

Alonso. — That's  what  I  was  going  to  say. 

Antoñón. — I  am  glad  to  have  taken  it  out  of  your  mouth.  I 
am  a  hard  man;  my  heart  is  not  taken  up  with  foolishnesses;  the 
bread  that  fills  the  mouths  of  my  wife  and  children  I  gain  with 
hard  work,  looking  more  into  the  earth  than  into  the  heavens. 
That  is  the  truth.  Very  well;  I  swear  to  you,  Carmen  Campos, 
and  to  you,  comrade,  that  when  Don  Juan  del  Monte  sat  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  great  table,  my  eyes  began  to  get  wet  and 
I  had  all  I  could  do  to  hide  my  face. 

Carmen  {Deeply  moved). — No  need  to  swear  it,  Antoñón. 
As  for  me  all  the  party  heard  me  crying. 

Antoñón. — And  what  joy  among  so  many  persons  of  different 
kinds!  Everybody  put  his  sorrows,  his  cares  and  grudges  be- 
hind him.  But  it  was  certainly  a  wonderful  sight  to  see  the  old 
man  running  his  eyes  over  all  the  company  with  such  delight. 

Alonso. — You  say  well,  brother,  you  say  well!  Here  there 
are  no  classes,  no  differences  between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  here 
all  are  equal.  And  why.''  Because  here  all  are  eating  the  same 
thing!     Let  them  think  on  this,  let  the  teachers  think  on  this! 

Carmen. — It  is  a  fine  song  you  come  out  with ! 

Antoñón. — Carmen  Campos,  in  what  corner  have  they  placed 
the  little  ones.''  What  a  tribe  they  are!  What  grace,  too,  it 
looks  like  a  schoolhouse  when  the  teacher  is  away!  Were  you 
present  when  Rafaelita,  the  dark  one  in  the  colored  gown,  got 
up  and  stood  before  Don  Juan  and  recited  a  little  poem.^  Because 
it  was  I  who  brought  her  up  in  my  own  family.  And  I  have  five 
of  them.     It  raised  one  to  heaven  just  to  hear  her. 

Alonso. — There  are  no  people  in  heaven.  Heaven  is  abol- 
ished. 

Carmen. — What  do  you  know  about  it.^ 

Alonso. — More  than  you,  who  don't  know  how  to  read  even 
the  letters  I  write  you.  To  know  these  things  requires  culture; 
you  have  to  read  the  books  that  Carbajo  the  barber  reads  to  me. 
But  enough  of  this  talk;  let  us  go  into  the  garden  now. 

Carmesí. — Into  the  garden,  no,  Alonso;  don't  try  it. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  309 

{The  same  voice  as  before  sings  another  copla.) 

Voice. — "Do  not  look  at  me  the  while 

Others  see  us  looking; 
Look  at  me  just  in  the  style 

As  if  you  were  not  looking. 
Let  us  look  without  a  guile 

And  in  never  looking 
Keep  on  looking  all  the  while," 

Antoñón. — Let  him  go  in,  Carmen  Campos.  He  will  give 
pleasure  to  Don  Juan.  If  he  were  drunk  I  should  be  the  first  to 
shut  him  out.     But  the  man  is  growing  quite  sober  now. 

Alonso. — To  show  that  I  have  good  manners,  you  may 
come  along  with  me,  woman,  and  pull  me  by  the  coat  if  I  fail  in 
my  speech.  I  only  want  to  say  that  today  the  sun  in  Arenales 

Carmen. — Yes,  it  rises  and  shines  in  another  way  than  on 
other  days.     We  have  heard  it  all  before. 

Alonso. — And  that  Alonso  Parra,  today  because  it  is  today, 
changes  his  ideas. 

Carmen. — And  when  will  you  change  your  drinking,  you 
disgrace! 

Alonso. — You  see  what  ignorance  leads  to.  My  drinking 
has  never  been  an  ideal. 

Carmen. — Come  this  way,  then,  you  disgrace,  this  way. 

Alonso. — Are  you  coming,  comrade. 

Antoñón. — I  shall  go  with  you. 

Alonso. — Come  and  hear  me,  man  and  hear  me.  Today  the 
sun  comes  forth  in  Arenales —     Today  is  a  day 

(Carmen  Campos  ¿zwí/ Alonso  go  out  through  the  garden  toward 
the  left.     Antoñón  slowly  lights  a  cigar  which  has  gone  out.) 

Antoñón. — What  a  beautiful  feast!  As  beautiful  as  an  oil- 
painting —  Whoever  has  seen  it  will  never  forget  it —  {He 
starts  slowly  toward  the  garden.) 

Carmen. — Yes,  Señora,  he  is  there.     {Heard  outside.) 

Antoñón. — What?  {He  peeps  from  behind  one  of  the  arches 
and  draws  aback  a  little.)  Bad  luck  to  her!  She  wants  to  put  me 
in  the  grave! 

(Doña  Filomena  appears  with  cheeks  inflamed  and  her  eyes 
shining.  It  is  beyond  doubt  that  at  the  feast  she  has  taken  more  than 
zvater.     It  is  she  that  Antoñón  wishes  to  avoid.) 

Doña  Filomena  {With  great  vehemence). — ^Antoñón! 

Antoñón. — Doña  Filomena! 


3IO  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Doña  Filomena. — Without  the  Doña!  without  the  Doña! 
What  are  you  doing  here. 

Antoñón. — I  came  out  to  meet  my  comrade  Alonso. 

Doña  Filomena. — Yes,  I  have  just  seen  him.  Ah,  Antoñón! 
How  happy  I  am  at  these  scenes!  Very  happy!  Did  you  notice 
that  I  wept.? 

Antoñón. — Yes,  I  see  it;  yes. 

Doña  Filomena. — A  fan,  Antoñón,  let  me  have  a  fan. 

Antoñón. — Here  are  two  or  three;  take  the  largest  as  the  air 
is  very  warm  today. 

Doña  Filomena. — Ah,  many  thanks.  You  are  always  very 
kind,  although  they  say  otherwise,  Antoñón.  A  parasol!  A 
parasol! 

Antoñón. — Also  a  parasol.'* 

Doña  Filomena. — Yes,  some  kind  or  other.  Today  is  a  day 
for  everybody.  Liberty,  equality,  fraternity!  {Tenderly.)  What 
a  feast,  Antoñón!  What  a  lovely  feast  for  a  heart  as  great  as 
mine!     Yes,  my  heart  is  very  great! 

Antoñón. — Yes,  Señora,  it  is  very  great — it  couldn't  be 
greater. 

Doña  Filomena. — All  of  us  reunited — all  happy — all  de- 
lighted— all  friends — all  equals —  Why  are  you  smiling,  Antoñón.? 

Antoñón. — At  that — all  of  us  equals. 

Doña  Filomena. — But  why.?     What  is  the  joke.?     Why.? 

Antoñón. — Because  my  comrade  Alonso  says  that  Christ 
came  on  earth  to  make  us  all  equals — therefore  they  call  wine  the 
blood  of  Christ  because,  a  cup  or  two  of  it,  and  all  become  equals! 

Doña  Filomena  {Laughing). — Now  look  here  Antoñón;  don't 
be  too  malicious!     Are  you  trying  to  say  I  have  had  four  glasses — ■■ 

Antoñón. — No,  Señora,  I  know  you  have  had  more  than 
forty 

Doña  Filomena. — Ah,  what  politeness!  No,  Antoñón,  my 
joy  of  today  is  not  because  of  wine;  it  is  not  artificial  joy;  my  joy 
has  its  rise  in  the  great  heart  the  Lord  has  given  me.  And  look 
here,  Antoñón;  all  my  joys  have  to  carry  with  them  a  dash  of 
mourning  for  the  loss  of  that  dear  martyr  who  was  my  husband. 

Antoñón. — But  then  }"ou  miss  him  at  times  ? 

Doña  Filomena. — I  miss  him  once  and  always,  that  is  no  lie. 
My  poor  husband!  Why  did  not  the  Lord  take  me  and  leave 
him  here  in  happiness .? 

Antoñón. — Come,  come.  Doña  Filomena,  the  Lord  knows 
what  He  has  to  do.     I  am  going  out  through  the  garden. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  311 

Doña  Filomena. — Do  not  leave  me,  Antoñón. 
Antoñón. — Come    then,   lean   upon    my   arm   if  you    don't 
want  to  fall. 

Doña  Filomena. — Before  joining  them  outside  let  us  take  a 

walk  alone  in  the  garden  to  see  if  the  air  won't  do  me  good 

Antoñón. — Whatever  you  please.  Doña  Filomena. 
Doña  Filomena. — Listen  to  them,  listen  how  they  sing.     The 
little  ones  are  like  birds! 

{Outside  the  children  sing  a  chorus  in  the  garden.,  very  jar  off 
while  the  dialogue  goes  on.) 

Children's  Voices. — "Who  will  tell  the  carbon-girl.'* 
Who  will  tell  the  carbon-man.'' 
Who  will  tell  that  I  am  married.'* 
Who  will  tell  when  love  began?" 

"The  little  widow,  the  little  widow, 
The  little  widow  is  fain  to  wed 
With  the  Count,  the  Count  of  Cabra, 
The  Count  of  Cabra,  so  they  said. 
I  do  not  love  the  Count  of  Cabra, 
The  Count  of  Cabra,  woe  is  m^e! 
I  do  not  love  the  Count  of  Cabra, 
The  Count  of  Cabra,  but  I  love  thee." 
AntoñÓ7i. — Yes,  Señora.     There  are  two  of  mine  there — and 
they  are  like  birds,  as  you  say —     But  you  should  see  the  way 
they  wear  out  their  shoes! 

Doña  Filomena. — Ah,  how  lucky!  Who  is  this  coming.'* 
Isn't  it  Papá  Juan.f* 

Antoñón. — Yes  he  is  coming  here. 

{Enter  Papá  Juan  and  Doña  Marciala  through  the  garden 
preceded  by  Trino.  Papá  Juan  is  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his 
daughter.) 

Doña  Filomena  {To  Trino  with  anxiety). — Has  anything 
happened  to  Papá  Juan.'^ 

Trino. — Nothing,  absolutely,  but  he  has  been  very  much 
excited  and  we  wish  him  to  be  quieter.  So  we  have  brought  him 
here. 

Doña  Filomena. — Very  good,  Trino.  But  you  always  had 
great  talent! 

Trino. — Always,  yes.  Señora. 
Doña  Filomena. — Papá  Juan! 


312  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Papá  Juan. — Filomena —  We've  been  having  a  drink  or 
two,  Eh  ? 

Doña  Filomena  {Kissing  his  hands). — What  a  feast!  What 
a  day! 

Doña  Marciala. — That  will  do,  Filomena,  that  will  do.  Go, 
go  out  to  the  others.     I  shall  also  go. 

Doña  Filomena. — Pardon  me,  Marciala!  I  have  enjoyed 
myself  much !     I  have  laughed  much !     I  have  wept  much ! 

Antoñón. — Altogether  too  much. 

Doña  Filomena. — Don't  delay  in  joining  us.  Au  revoir. 
(She  starts  tozvard  the  garden.) 

Papá  Juan  {With  a  childish  laugh). — ^Antoñón,  what  miracle 
is  this  .'* 

Antoñón. — Señor  Don  Juan  del  Monte,  it  is  a  miracle  of  the 
Lord.  He  has  made  her  most  affectionate,  and  she  has  taken  to 
me  in  all  sympathy.  But  for  the  health  of  my  children,  I  pre- 
ferred her  when  she  was  spitting. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah ! 

Doña  Filomena  {Reappearing  for  a  moment). — Antoñón! 

Antoñón. — All  right.  Señora,  all  right.  {He  follows  her  into 
the  garden.) 

Trino. — ^Altogether,  it  is  quiet  here. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah ! 

Trino. — Prisoner  to  Trino  for  a  minute.  Soon  we  shall  re- 
turn to  the  Babel. 

Doña  Marciala. — Yes,  Papá;  this  is  a  day  for  everybody. 
Laughing,  crying,  some  are  not  very  prudent —  Here,  stay, 
here  with  Trino  until  I  return. 

Papá  Juan. — Whatever  you  wish,  just  what  you  wish.  {A 
short  silence.)     Oh,  Marciala.^ 

Doña  Marciala. — Well } 

Papá  Juan. — The  flowers  from  the  table 

Doña  Marciala. — They  are  all  going  to  the  cem.etery;  don't 
worry  about  them. 

Papá  Juan. — Who  will  take  them.? 

Doña  Marciala. — Two  of  the  daughters  of  Carmen  Campos. 
Don't  worry,  I  say.     Everything  will  be  done  as  you  wish  it. 

Papá  Juan. — Do  they  know  where  Mamma  is  lying.'' 

Doña  Marciala. — How  could  they  help  knowing  where 
Mamma  is — where  Dolores  is — and  all  the  others —  Be  calm 
about  it.     Don't  think  any  more  about  it 

Trino. — It  would  be  fine  if  you  could  catch  a  little  nap. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  313 

Papá  Juan. — Not  now.     I  couldn't  sleep  now. 

Doña  Marciala. — But,  Papá,  it  would  do  you  a  world  of  good. 

Papá  Juan. — But  I  won't  sleep,  daughter.  Run  out  and 
manage  that  uproar  and  leave  me  with  Trino.  Trino  and  I  to- 
gether—  Let  the  young  ones  dance,  and  the  tiny  ones  sing  and 
run  about;  and  let  all  the  countryside  take  a  long  jubilee —  Papá 
Juan  has  completed  his  hundred  years! 

Doña  Marciala. — Very  well;  I  shall  leave  you  here  with  Trino 
and  go  away,  {^he  goes  toward  the  door  hut  before  leaving  she  calls 
Trino  with  a  sign.)     Listen  to  me,  Trino. 

Trino  {Approaching  her). — What  would  you  say? 

Doña  Marciala. — Do  not  leave  this  spot. 

Trino. — I  will  keep  watch.     See  that  nobody  comes  near  us. 

Doña  Marciala. — I  will  see  to  that.  He  must  certainly  have 
a  little  rest.     (She  goes  out.) 

Trino. — Yes,  that  is  right,  yes. 

Papá  Juan. — What  are  you  saying.''  What  a  trouble  you 
give  yourselves!  Sleep?  I  will  not  sleep.  I  have  looked  for- 
ward with  such  desire  for  this  day  that  I  have  no  intention  of 
sleeping  it  away.     You  will  see  I  won't.     {A  pause.)     Trino. 

Trino.- — What  do  you  wish? 

Papá  Jua7i. — What  are  you  thinking  of? 

Trino. — Nothing,  Papá  Juan. 

Papá  Juan. — Are  you  happy? 

Trino. — As  happy  as  you  are. 

(Papá  Juan  laughs  to  himself,  remembering  events  of  the  feast.) 

Papá  Juan. — Well!  Rafael  was  very  courteous —  A  little 
clumsy  but  very  polite.  And  Evaristo  he  raised  the  very  devil. 
Then  there  was  Currita!  What  a  pretty  toast  she  offered — and 
so  witty!     Did  you  write  it? 

Trino. — I  have  not  the  talent  for  such  clever  writing. 

Papá  Juan. — No,  truly? 

Trino. — Currita  is  alone  able  to  do  it. 

Papá  Juan. — Ah,  Currita,  Currita!  Who  shall  catch  that 
butterfly  with  the  swift  wings?     Eh?     What  do  you  say? 

Trino. — I  have  not  said  anything. 

Papá  Juan. — But  then,  when  are  you  leaving  us,  man?  Are 
you  going  tomorrow,  Trino? 

Trino. — No,  Papá  Juan  no.  I  am  going  if  you  do  not  keep 
still  and  rest  a  bit. 

Papá  Juan.—V^eW,  then  {A  short  pause.)  Poor  Gabriela. 
How  gentle  and   kind  she  has  been!     Did  you  notice?     They 


314  PAPÁ  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

told  me  that  Gabriela —  The  poor  Httle  thing!  And  Filomena 
who  was  at  first  for  placing  herself  arms  akimbo  in  the  middle  of 
the  feast  nearly  drowned  us  with  her  weeping —  Yes,  yes — 
Did  you  see  her  when  Rafael  who  had  been  drinking  made  her 
speak  to  him,  how  she  answered?  Then  without  another  word, 
he  clasped  her  boy  and  gave  him  a  kiss  saying  "This  is  all  I  have 
to  say  about  it."     That  was  something,  eh? 

Trino. — I  should  say  so.  But,  Señor,  let  us  speak  of  Gabriela 
when  we  have  more  leisure. 

Papá  Juan. — And  the  little  chap  is  quite  attractive  and 
lively  as  a  spark.  The  way  with  all  of  those  who  come  into  the 
world  in  this  fashion  1     Mysterious,  mysterious —     Listen 

Trino. — I  do  not  listen. 

Papá  Juan.' — Why  not  ? 

Trino. — I  don't  hear  because  I  don't  want  to  hear,  because 
I  want  you  to  go  to  sleep. 

Papá  Juan. — Then  you  do  the  talking. 

Trino. — No,  I  won't  talk.     All  I'll  do  is  to  sing  you  to  sleep. 

Papá  Juan. — Go  ahead  then!  No,  I  won't  sleep!  Don't 
be  afraid,  it  won't  harm  me.  You  see,  if  you  won't  speak  to  me 
I  have  to  speak  to  you —  Ah,  Trino!  Do  you  not  see  with 
what  hopes  I  have  looked  forward  to  this  day?  Today  I  have 
seen  reunited  all  of  my  family  that  is  alive —  Why  was  I  chosen 
to  accomplish  that?  Why  have  I  reached  this  great  age?  Why 
did  I  not  die  on  the  way  hither  like  the  others?  Why  have  the 
little  children  and  the  young  people  passed  away — and  I  remain 
behind  ? 

Trino. — Hush,  Papá  Juan.  Hush.  Why  are  you  beginning 
to  speak  of  death  ? 

Papá  J^lan. — Because  I  am  now  nearer  to  death  than  to  life. 
And  while  I  am  still  alive,  I  meditate  on  death.  And  you  see  I 
speak  of  it  without  any  fear,  for  it  brings  with  it  an  eternal  repose^ 
an  eternal  life  for  my  spirit.  {He  falls  into  an  abstraction.)  Who 
is  singing? 

Trino. — The  children  out  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  Do 
they  bother  you? 

Papá  Juan. — No. 

Trino. — Nevertheless.  {He  goes  out  into  the  garden.  In  a 
little  while  the  voices  die  azvay  until  they  are  altogether  silent.) 

Papá  Juan. — Trino?  Where  are  you  going.  Trino?  He  is 
resolved  to  get  me  to  sleep.     They  have  given  him  some  wine 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  315 

inside.  Just  as  they  have  to  her  who  has  made  friends  with 
Antoñón —  (Trino  comes  back  and  observes  Papá  Juan.)  No, 
I  will  not  sleep. 

Trino.- — I  shall  draw  the  curtains,  however;  there  is  too  ir.uch 
light. 

Papá  Juan. — Do  as  you  please,  man.  {While  Trino  is  drazv- 
ing  the  curtains  the  voices  of  the  children  are  heard  singing  afar  off. 
Then  they  cease.) 

Trino. — That  is  better.  {A  pause.)  No,  go  to  sleep.  {He 
sits  dozen.)  To  leave  him  there  at  the  mercy  of  everybody  would 
have  been  a  rashness.  I  myself  am  giddy  from  it.  {He  picks  up 
a  book  and  turns  the  leaves.     Currita  comes  in  through  the  garden.) 

Currita. — Trino.''     Where  are  you  lurking.^ 

TrÍ7io. — Hush. 

Currita. — Why .'' 

Trifio. — Don't  speak. 

{He  points  to  Papá  Juan  asleep.     They  speak  i?i  hushed  tones.) 

Currita. — Ah,  Papá  Juan  is  sleeping!     The  poor  old  man! 

Trino. — We  brought  him  here,  fearing  he  might  be  ill. 

Currita. — You  did  right.  That  room  inside  is  a  perfect 
inferno. 

Trino. — Don't  raise  your  voice. 

Currita. — Let  us  go  out  from  here,  so  as  not  to  wake  him. 

Trino. — I  don't  want  to  leave  him  lest  somebody  break  into 
the  place. 

Currita. — Then  I  shall  go —  (She  doesn't  move.)  I  shall 
go — because  if  we  talk — I  shall  go. 

Trino. — Wait  a  while.     Stay  a  while, 

Currita. — Do  you  wish  me  to  remain? 

Trino. — Of  course. 

Currita. — And  suppose  we  should  awaken  him.  Trino.'' 

Trino. — We  shall  not  awaken  him,  don't  worry.     Stay  here. 

Currita. — Very  well,  since  you  wish  it.  The  fault,  if  any, 
is  yours. 

Trino. — Only  mine. 

(Currita  sits  down  near  Trino.  She  looks  at  Papá  Juan 
and  Trino  looks  at  her.) 

Currita. — Poor  Papá  Juan!  His  wishes  are  fulfilled!  {She 
zvaits  for  Trino's  anszver  but  all  his  eloquence  is  in  his  eyes  and 
when  he  makes  no  reply  she  continues.)  So  long  as  we  don't  dis- 
turb his  slumber! 

Trino  {laughing). — After  I  have  told  you  not  to  worry 


3i6  PAPA  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Currita. — Seeing  what  ? 

Trino. — What? 

Currita. — That  he  is  asleep. 

Trino. — Yes  ? 

Currita. — Yes. 

Papá  Juan  {Talking  in  his  sleep). — Currita — Currita 

Trino. — And  he  dreams  of  you! 

Papá    Juan. — Currita — — 

Currita.- — Of  me,  he  loves  me  best  of  all! 

Trino. — And  so  you  love  him? 

Currita. — As  a  father  I  love  him.  Old  people  should  not  die 
so  fast.  They  are  the  books  which  know  and  teach  all  things. 
I  never  leave  him,  sun  or  shade,  and  wherever  we  go  he  is  always 
teaching  me  something.  And  it  is  a  great  delight  to  me  to  learn 
so  much!  You  go  out  with  him  into  the  country  and  he  gives 
you  the  names  of  all  the  flowers,  of  all  the  herbs  and  all  the  trees. 
A  bird  flies  by  and  he  must  learn  what  is  its  name,  and  where  it 
makes  its  nest,  and  if  it  is  composed  of  feathers  and  mud.  A  star 
rises  and  he  tells  you  its  namiC.  A  shepherd  greets  him  and  con- 
verses with  him  about  the  flock,  and  then  he  tells  you  who  the 
shepherd  is,  how  old  he  is,  who  is  his  daughter,  who  was  his 
mother,  and  even  who  was  his  grandmother —  And  when  he 
does  not  see  anything,  there  are  the  things  he  has  seen  and  whose 
memory  he  carries  in  his  heart.  Currita,  don't  do  this,  it  is  bad. 
Currita  always  do  that,  it  is  good;  Currita  listen,  and  he  tells  me 
a  proverb;  Currita,  when  this  happens  be  sure  of  that,  and  then 
comes  a  refrain—  And  the  stories  he  tells!  And  the  way  he 
applies  the  histories  of  real  folk!  He  understands  everything,  he 
speaks  of  everything —  How  could  I  help  loving  him  as  I  do — - 
with  so  many  reasons  for  loving  him  as  I  have 

Trino. — To  love  and  to  learn  are  your  principal  delights  ? 

Currita. — Both.  To  love  is  my  great  delight.  And  to  be 
beloved. 

Trino. — You  are  only  talking. 

Currita. — But  to  you  who  are  as  silent  as  though  in  church. 

Trino. — I  am  listening — 

Currita. — Does  it  please  you  more  to  listen  than  to  speak? 

Trino. — When  you  are  talking — then 

{A  short  pause.) 

Currita. — Well  ? 

Trino. — Well. 

Currita. — I  also  like  to  listen  at  times. 


SERAFÍN  AND  JOAQUÍN  ALVAREZ  QUINTERO  317 

Trino. — Yes? 
Cnrrita. — I  mean  it. 
Trino. — Well  then 


Papá  Juan  {Speaking  in  his  sleep  as  before). — Trino — Trino — 

Currita. — Do  you  hear,  he  is  now  thinking  of  you. 

Trino. — He  keeps  us  both  in  mind 

Papá  Juan. — Trino 

Currita. — With  both  of  us 

Trino. — Why  should  he  dream  of  us  both  ? 

Currita. — Let  us  ask  him  when  he  awakens.  Now  he  is 
dreaming 

Trino. — Dreaming — dreaming — Papá  Juan  is  an  admirable 
old  m.an.  He  dreams  a  great  deal  in  his  sleep  and  then  he  wakes 
up.  It  is  very  remarkable  to  me  that  he  should  still  dream — ■ 
He  is  one  hundred  years  old  and  his  illusions  still  run  on.  I  am 
only  thirty  and  sometimes  I  think  that  my  life  is  without  an 
object.  And  when  I  hear  him  eternally  singing  of  hope,  I  laugh 
at  the  pettiness  of  my  disillusions  and  my  smallness  of  spirit. 
Here  we  see  him  dreaming  over  this  family  gathering,  in  which  all 
the  ideal  force  of  his  soul  has  been  concentrated,  all  his  illusion  in 
this  world;  when  he  has  done  with  this  dream  he  will  start  on 
another. 

Ciirrita. — And  dream  on. 

Trino. — Dream  on,  as  you  know. 

Currita. — Yes. 

Trino. — And  what  shall  it  be.^^  (Currita  is  silent.)  Will 
you  not  tell  me  ? 

Currita. — No. 

Trino.' — Why  not  ? 

Currita. — Because  not.  I  should  place  myself  in  a  fine 
position ! 

(Papá  Juan  wakes  up  and  observes  them  blandly,  measuring 
what  is  going  on  between  them.     He  hardly  stirs  and  rises.) 

Trino. — What  harm  in  telling  me? 

Currita. — No  harm,  but — well — I  shall  not  tell  you. 

Trino. — Then  I  shall  ask  Papá  Juan  when  he  wakes  up. 

Currita. — No,  unless 

Trino. — Are  you  not  going  to  ask  him  why  he  dreamt  of  us 
together? 

Currita. — Yes,  but  that  is  different.  Don't  you  see  ?  Leave 
it  to  me. 

Trino. — Why  leave  it  to  you,  Currita? 


3i8  PAPA  JUAN  OR  THE  CENTENARIAN 

Currita. — Yes,  Trino,  yes.  {Seeing  Papá  Juan  is  standing.) 
Ah,  Papá  Juan.     Do  you  see  him,  Trino.'' 

Trino. — Papá  Juan. 

Currita. — We  have  awakened  him  with  our  chatter.  What 
did  I  tell  you  ? 

Papá  Juan. — It  has  not  been  your  talking  that  awakened 
me. 

Currita. — No? 

Pa-pa  Juaii. — It  has  been  a  voice  much  farther  off — Trino — 
don't  you  hear  a  song  afar  off  .^ 

Trino  {listening  a  moment). — No,  not  now 

Papá  Juan. — But  surely.''  Listen  well —  It  is  very  far  off — 
in  space — very  high — very  far 

Trino  {Comprehending) . — Ah,  yes.  Papá  Juan —  {Gazing  at 
Currita  and  embracing  her.)  Yes,  yes,  I  hear  the  far  off  voice — 
Yes,  I  hear  it 

Papá  Juan. — And  you,  Currita.''     Don't  you  hear  it  too.f* 

Currita. — I,  no — I,  no 

Trino. — But  I  do. 

Currita. — I  don't. 

Papá  Juan. — But  since  Trino  hears  it — you  will  hear  it  also 
when  the  voice  comes  nearer. 

Currita. — Are  you  sure  of  that.^ 

Papá  Juan. — I  am  certain.  You  see,  Trino,  you  who  desired 
to  give  up  living.''  Look  at  me;  never  despair  or  give  up  hope. 
Life  goes  on;  springtime  returns.  I  have  slept  and  been  dreaming 
— and  I  heard  a  voice  from  the  other  world.  The  bright  light  of 
the  fairy-tails,  Currita!     And  I  am  one  hundred  years  old! 

{He  embraces  Trino  with  joy  and  Currita  follows  trying  to 
hear,  full  of  emotion  and  interest.  Meanwhile,  as  the  curtain  falls 
there  is  heard  the  far-off  singing  of  the  children.) 


SOiME  ASPECTS  OF  CONTEM- 
PORARY SPANISH  DRAMA 

By  Charles  Alfred  Turrell 

Author  of  '"''Contemporary  Spanish  Dramatists^^ 

DURING  the  last  three  decades,  the  spread  of  socialism 
and  internationaHsm  has  caused  the  Hteratures  of 
the  world  to  become  really  cosmopolitan.  There 
are  two  striking  exceptions  among  the  peoples  of 
Europe:  Ireland  and  Spain.  If,  as  Professor  Chand- 
ler says,  the  development  of  a  national  drama  in 
Ireland  has  been  "a  patriotic  desire  to  awaken  the  national  con- 
sciousness, to  exalt  the  national  dignity,"  the  retention  of  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  nationalism  in  the  recent  revival  of  the  drama  in 
Spain  has  been  due  to  a  desire  that  Spain  should  come  to  life 
and  take  the  place  she  merits  among  modern  nations.  Naturally 
this  very  desire  has  impelled  her  writers  to  follow  at  every  step 
the  changing  currents  of  thought  in  other  lands,  especially  in 
France  and  Germany,  the  two  nations  in  which  new  ideas  of  art 
and  life  have  arisen  and  developed  most.  But  in  Spain  these 
currents  have  been  diverted  and  adapted  to  harmonize  with 
national  ideals  and  traditions.  Hence,  though  we  find  almost 
every  miovement  of  European  thought  reflected  in  Spain,  these 
movements  have  been  given  a  more  local  significance  than  else- 
where. 

Nowhere  is  obscurantism  so  dominant,  and  it  follows  that 
many  problems  accepted  as  solved  in  other  countries  are  still 
vital  questions  in  Spain.  At  the  root  of  all  the  other  problems 
is  the  power  of  the  Church  and  the  prevailing  ignorance  of  the 
masses,  so  the  drama  of  ideas,  the  problem  play,  becomes  a  weapon 
in  the  hands  of  reformers  to  wield  against  these  conditions.  The 
great  fighter  in  the  cause  of  progress  has  been  Benito  Pérez  Galdós, 
a  leader  of  the  Socialist-Republican  party,  and  the  greatest 
literary  genius  of  nineteenth  century  Spain.  Beginning  with  his 
famous  novel.  Doña  Perfecta  in  1876,  he  has  for  over  forty  years 

319 


320  ASPECTS  OF  CONTEMPORARY  SPANISH  DRAMA 

waged  war  against  medisevalism.  When  a  school  text  of  this 
novel  appeared  in  the  United  States  many  years  ago,  the  pub- 
lishers received  protests  from  narrow-minded  churchmen  against 
putting  such  a  book  in  the  hands  of  American  young  people. 
Yet  it  is  not  a  novel  directed  against  the  Church,  but  against 
provincial  ignorance  and  bigotry.  After  repeating  the  attack 
in  a  series  of  novels  covering  twenty-five  years,  in  1901  Galdós 
turned  to  make  use  of  the  stage  for  his  propaganda  in  his  great 
play,  Electra,  feeling,  no  doubt,  that  in  a  nation  where  the  per- 
centage of  illiteracy  is  larger  than  in  any  other  great  nation,  save 
Russia,  the  appeal  would  be  wider.  It  was  the  fortune  of  the 
writer  to  see  Electra  played  in  perhaps  the  poorest  theater  in 
Madrid,  the  Teatro  Latina,  in  the  Barrio  Toledo,  to  an  audience 
composed  entirely  of  workingm.en  and  their  families,  and  the 
most  impressive  phase  of  the  performance  was  the  apparent 
interest  and  sympathy  of  the  spectators,  many  of  whom  probably 
could  neither  read  nor  WTite.  This  is  mentioned  as  a  justifica- 
tion of  Galdós'  use  of  the  stage  to  voice  his  plea  for  an  awakening. 
The  play  is  a  drama  of  ideas,  symbolical  and  psychological.  Spain 
must  come  to  life,  she  must  break  loose  from  the  fetters  of  the 
mediaeval  spirit  of  the  Church,  and  this  she  will  do  through  the 
aid  of  modern  scientific  thought.  In  a  recent  play.  Sor  Simona 
(1915),  Galdós  puts  his  views  into  the  mouth  of  the  escaped  nun. 
Sister  Simona  would  be  "free,  like  the  Divine  breath  that  moves 
the  world." 

From  an  entirely  different  quarter  came  the  attack  on  ob- 
scurantism in  Linares  Rivas'  "The  Claws"  {La  Garra,  1914). 
From  the  pen  of  a  conservative  senator,  the  play  caused  surprise, 
but  won  approval  even  from  conservative  critics,  who  had  per- 
haps condemned  Electra,  thirteen  years  before.  This  time  the 
attitude  of  Spain  and  the  Church  toward  the  divorce  question  is 
the  vulnerable  point.  A  Spaniard,  married  and  divorced  in  New 
York,  returns  to  Spain  to  live,  falls  in  love  with  a  woman  of  good 
family  in  a  small  town  (Campanela,  a  disguised  Compostella), 
and  they  live  happily  for  many  years.  But  suddenly,  by  accident, 
his  life  in  New  York  becomes  known  to  his  wife's  family  and  to 
the  authorities  of  the  little  city.  Though  he  has  committed  no 
m.oral  wrong,  he  is  seized  by  the  "Claws"  of  the  Church,  from 
which  there  is  no  escape — in  Spain — and  the  inevitable  tragedy 
results.  The  play  is  not  openly  didactic,  nor  is  the  real  problem 
solved,  as  it  is  in  Electra,  but  the  aim  is  plainly  to  show  how 
incongruous  are  antiquated,  m.ediseval  lav>'s  and  prejudices  in  the 


CHARLES  ALFRED  TÚRRELE  321 

midst  of  a  modern  world,  for  Antonio's  cry  is,  "beyond  the 
frontiers  lies  Liberty."  There  is  in  the  play  some  reminiscences 
of  Tolstoi's  "The  Man  who  was  Dead"  in  the  side-plot  of  the 
Commandant  and  Santa,  who,  however,  do  not  marry  as  do  Victor 
and  Lisa  In  Tolstoi's  play.  Linares  Rivas  is  content  with  the 
ragedy  of  renunciation  and  separation.  The  husband  does  not 
tcome  ack — probably  never  will — but  the  laws  and  customs  of 
non-progressive  Spain  (no  moral  law)  prevents  the  happy  union  of 
the  lovers.  Linares  Rivas  in  an  earlier  play,  "Air  from  Without" 
{Aire  de  fuera,  1903)  had  treated  the  divorce  question.  Here  a 
husband,  convinced  of  the  infidelity  of  his  wife,  goes  to  Belgium 
where  he  will  become  a  citizen  and  in  due  time  secure  a  leo-al 
divorce — legal  under  the  laws  of  that  country,  but  not  of  Spain. 
Eduardo  Zamacois  in  a  clever  one-act  play,  "The  Passing  of  the 
Magi"  {Los  Reyes  pasan,  191 2)  solves  a  simJlar  situation.  The 
heroine  a  young  widow,  casts  conventionality  aside  and  goes  to 
Coruña  to  join  her  lover — the  husband  of  a  worthless  and  un- 
faithful wife.  Together  they  will  go  to  Buenos  Aires  to  begin 
life  anew  under  other  laws  and  in  a  more  liberal  social  atmosphere. 
Few  are  the  Spanish  dramatists  that  have  given  battle 
openly  to  the  prevalent  ultram.ontane  spirit,  but  it  is  to  be  seen 
here  and  there  as  a  potent  factor.  Martinez  Sierra's  "Cradle 
Song"  {Canción  de  cuna,  191 1)  does  not  attack  the  convents 
directly,  but  the  picture  of  the  narrowness  of  life  of  the  nuns, 
their  circumscribed  vision  and  childlike  ideals,  arouse  pity,  if  not 
censure,  and  a  feeling  of  the  lack  of  harmony  between  such  an 
institution  and  modern  progress. 

The  problem  of  obscurantism  is  no  longer  a  universal  prob- 
lem, but  distinctly  a  national  one,  hence  these  plays  have  a 
national  quality.  The  more  universal  them.e  of  the  relations 
between  capital  and  labor,  the  drama  of  economic  conflict,  has 
been  carried  into  Spain  and  also  given  a  marked  Spanish  charac- 
ter. Hauptmann's  "Weavers"  was  adapted — not  translated — 
into  Spanish  by  Liana  and  Francos  Rodriguez,  with  the  title, 
"The  Poor  Man's  Bread"  {El  Pan  del  pobre)  and  aroused  a  great 
furore.  In  the  hands  of  the  Spanish  adapters  it  became  almost 
a  melodrama  and  critics  refused  to  recognize  in  it  a  great  plea  for 
justice,  but  rather  a  simple  dramatic  and  tragic  motif.  Then 
came  Dicenta's  Juan  José  in  1895,  the  first  Spanish  play  of  the 
masses.  Rather  than  a  real  play  of  protest,  it  is  a  drama  of  love 
and  passion  after  accepted  Spanish  models,  differing  from  the 
romanticism  of  Echegaray  only  in  the  social  class  of  its  person- 


322  ASPECTS  OF  CONTEMPORARY  SPANISH  DRAMA 

ages.  But  that  difference  is  important  one.  The  workingmen, 
gathered  in  the  tavern,  complain  of  the  oppression  of  their  em- 
ployers and  discuss  a  possible  social  revolution — which  does  not 
occur,  however.  Economic  conditions  make  it  possible  for  Paco 
to  take  from  his  employe,  Juan  José,  the  woman  he  loves,  by 
depriving  him  oí  his  work  and  his  wages  and  black-listing  him. 
Instead  of  using  this  as  an  incentive  to  the  possible  social  revolu- 
tion, Juan  José  escapes  from  prison  and,  in  true  Spanish  romantic 
fashion,  kills  both  the  woman  and  her  lover.  The  central  theme 
is  not  the  social  unrest,  but  blind,  brutal  passion,  made  more 
blind  and  more  brutal  by  ignorance.  Dicenta  continued  to  write 
plays  of  the  proletariat,  and,  while  in  none  of  them  is  there  a  real 
social  conflict,  there  is  ever  present  the  inequality  of  the  classes, 
the  hatred  of  the  laborer  for  his  employer,  the  deprivation  and 
misery  of  the  masses,  emphasizing  the  fact,  as  a  Spanish  critic 
has  said,  that  "there  is  much  money  in  a  few  pockets,  and  many 
pockets  with  little  or  no  money." 

Dicenta's  Aurora  (1902)  has  some  of  the  characteristics  of 
Electra.  Aurora,  however,  is  not  an  innocent  child,  as  is  Electra, 
but  a  poor  factory  girl,  who  has  been  seduced  by  her  employer. 
A  young  doctor,  a  scientist,  like  Maximo  in  Galdós'  play,  is 
engaged  to  an  unworthy  woman,  from  whom  he  is  saved  by 
Aurora.  In  Don  Homobono,  a  hypocrate,  administrator  for 
some  religious  communities,  there  is  seen  something  of  Pantoja. 
The  union  of  Aurora  and  Manuel,  the  only  noble  characters  of 
the  play,  to  Dicenta  is  prophetic  of  a  new  Humanity  that  shall 
rise  on  the  ruins  of  social  corruptness.  As  in  Electra,  modern 
scientific  thought  is  something  that  comes  from  without,  some- 
thing exotic  to  the  Spaniards. 

Galdós,  the  reformer,  has  attempted  several  times  to  show 
the  levelling  of  classes,  as  in  "The  Duchess  of  San  Quintín" 
{La  de  San  Quintín,  1894),  where  the  Duchess  marries  a  "son  of 
nobody,"  in  Mariucha  (1900),  where  the  heroine  rebels  against 
society,  and,  uniting  with  her  lover,  Leon,  both  emancipated 
from  the  past,  would  create  a  new  social  caste,  a  new  family  free 
from  pride  and  traditional  prejudices.  He  combated  traditional 
famJly  pride  even  more  violently  in  his  great  drama,  "The  Grand- 
father" {El  Abuelo,  1898).  Contrary  to  all  presumptions  of 
family,  Dolly  is  good  and  self-sacrificing  in  her  love  for  the  old 
man,  while  Nell,  of  his  own  blood,  of  the  proud  race  of  Albrit, 
is  selfish  and  mean.  A  lesson,  if  true,  to  the  scion  of  haughty 
Castillian   lineage.     Linares    Rivas    in   "The    Family   Lineage" 


CHARLES  ALFRED  TURRELL  323 

{El  Abolengo,  1904)  shows  how  absurd  are  pretensions  of  title 
and  family  in  the  light  of  common  sense  and  the  life  of  today. 

A  real  sociological  drama  is  Galdós'  "Celia  Goes  Slumming" 
(Celia  en  los  infiernos,  191 3),  evidencing  how  thoroughly  socialis- 
tic the  author  has  become  in  recent  years.  The  problems  of 
class-levelling,  co-operative  business,  equal  distribution  of  wealth, 
and  moral  reform  are  all  factors  in  the  play.  Celia,  the  rich 
young  woman,  who  becomes  the  head  of  a  big  business,  will 
undoubtedly  marry  the  social  agitator,  Leoncio,  and  one  step 
is  attained  toward  the  social  equilibrium.  In  a  still  more  recent 
play,  already  mentioned.  Sor  Simona  (1915),  probably  inspired 
by  the  great  war,  Galdos'  themes  are  socialistic:  peace  and  the 
international  brotherhood  of  man.  And  "peace  is  to  be  sought 
in  love,  in  worldly  virtue,  in  the  help  of  the  needy,  to  attain  to  the 
love  for  that  great  Fatherland,  which  is  Humanity. " 

The  old  medieval  idea  of  honor,  to  v/hich  the  Spaniard  has 
clung  so  long,  becomes  less  and  less  frequent  on  the  stage  of  today. 
Ecbegaray's  Mariana  w£.s  a  drama  of  the  old  school.  General 
Pablo  kills  his  bride  and  then,  presumably,  her  lover  in  a  duel. 
In  "The  Great  Galeoto"  {El  Gran  Galeote)  X.h-:  husband  fights  a 
duel  with  the  traducer  of  his  wife's  good  nam.e,  in  defence  of  what 
he  considers  his  honor.  Ernesto  would  do  so,  to  defend,  not  his 
honor,  but  that  same  good  name.  What  has  been  called  "sub^ 
jective  honor"  is  the  basis  of  Echegaray's  "Folly  or  Saintliness" 
{0  Locura  0  santidad)  and  of  Galdós'  "The  Grandfather"  {El 
Abuelo),  but  the  traditional  cape  and  sword  play,  with  its  swash- 
buckling duelists  has  practically  disappeared. 

The  other  dom.inant  note  of  Spanish  romanticism.,  the  glori- 
fication of  woman,  is  still  prevalent,  especially  in  the  works  of 
Martinez  Sierra.  In  this  feature  he  is  the  most  Spanish  of  all 
contemporary  dramatists — at  least,  he  has  clung  m.ost  tenaciously 
to  an  old  ideal.  "The  Cradle  Song"  {Canción  de  cuna)\\diS  been 
characterized  as  a  Hymn  to  Motherhood,  but  it  is  such  a  hymn 
as  could  be  heard  only  in  a  land  where  the  cult  of  the  Virgin  has 
prevailed  for  centuries,  as  in  Spain.  The  thoroughly  national 
character  of  Martinez  Sierra  is  seen  also  in  his  florid,  gongoristic 
style,  for  no  nation  has  been  so  fond  of  fine  rhetoric  as  the  Spanish. 
Among  Martinez  Sierra's  best  work  is,  perhaps,  his  early  col- 
lection, "Dream  Theater"  {Teatro  de  Ensueño  1895),  plays  to 
be  read,  not  perform.ed,  showing  the  influence  of  the  Northern 
symbolists,  the  quest  of  Queen  Sun  in  Pastoral  reminding  us  of 


324  ASPECTS  OF  CONTEMPORARY  SPANISH  DRAMA 

Maeterlinck's  "Blue  Bird"  {Uoiseau  bleu).  To  this  type  of  arm- 
chair drama  belongs  also  Benavente's  Teatro  Fantástico  (1892). 

The  chief  representative  of  the  closet  drama  in  Spain  is, 
however,  Ramón  del  Valle-Inclan.  His  works  when  played, 
have  not  greatly  succeeded  on  the  stage.  An  exception  is  "The 
Marchioness  Rosalind"  {La  Marquesa  Rosalinda^  191 2),  which 
was  well  received.  Valle-Inclan  has  initiated  a  personal  style, 
absolutely  individual,  but  which  unveils  a  new  world,  inspires 
undreamt  of  emotions.  His  scenes  are  those  of  dream  and  fancy, 
with  the  tints  of  the  twilight,  the  harmonies  of  silence — the 
gardens  of  Versailles,  the  groves  of  Aranjuez — a  complex  sym- 
phony of  nature.  His  personages  are  those  of  fairy-land — gnomes 
and  dwarfs.  Harlequins  and  Colum.bines,  fairy  princesses,  cour- 
tiers and  ladies  of  Watteau,  nymphs  of  Corot,  people  his  poem- 
dramas.  In  them  is  the  mystic  symbolism  of  the  neo-romantic 
movement,  transplanted  to  Spanish  soil  and  colored  by  the  deli- 
cate pencil  of  the  Spanish  artist. 

Even  more  a  poet  than  Valle-Inclán  and  less  dramatic  is 
Francisco  Villaespesa,  a  son  of  Almeria,  who  has  put  into  his  work 
all  the  bright  colors  of  the  Andalusian  skies,  all  the  delicate 
traceries  of  her  Moorish  architecture  and  all  the  music  of  her 
bubbling  fountains.  There  is  no  more  graceful  verse  in  the 
Spanish  language  than  that  of  Villaespesa's  "Palace  of  Pearls" 
{El  Alcázar  de  las  Perlas,  191 1),  a  semi-historical  tragedy  based 
on  a  legend  of  the  building  of  the  Alhambra.  In  Abcn-Huvieya 
and  "The  Desert"  {El  Desierto,  1915)  he  is  also  inspired  by  those 
Moorish  stories  which  v/ere  the  delight  of  his  youth,  while  in 
Judith  (191 3)  he  has  clothed  the  well-known  Biblical  theme  in 
exquisite  verse. 

The  traditions  of  the  Spanish  stage  are  essentially  poetic  and 
poets  have  always  been  favorite  interpreters  of  the  Spanish  race 
and  of  Spanish  art.  So,  in  spite  of  the  vogue  of  the  psychological 
play,  the  dram.a  of  ideas,  which  will  bring  to  the  scene  life  and 
truth,  one  great  dramatist  of  today  has  continued  the  classic 
Spanish  traditions  and  has  evoked  some  of  the  most  stirring 
periods  of  Spanish  history.  Eduardo  Marquina's  "The  Sun  has 
Set  in  Flanders"  {En  Fla?ides  se  ha  puesto  el  Sol,  1910)  is  at  once 
patriotic  and  cosmopolitan.  Now  it  recalls  the  classics  of  the 
Siglo  de  Oro,  and  now  invites  comparison  with  Rostand.  Its 
characters  are  well-drawn  and  its  scenes  are  real,  yet  its  verse  is 
sonorous  and  its  sentiments  inspiring.  No  play  of  recent  years 
has  been  m.ore  popular  with  the  middle  classes.     In  some  of  his 


CHARLES  ALFRED  TURRELL        325 

plays  Marquina  has  perhaps  put  more  poetry,  but  in  none  so 
much  dramatic  interest.  "The  Daughters  of  the  Cid"  {Las 
Hijas  del  Ctd,  1908),  "The  Troubadour  King"  (El  Rey  Trovador, 
1912),  "Flowers  of  Aragón"  {Las  flores  de  Aragón,  1914)  and 
"The  Great  Captain"  {El  Gran  Capitán,  1916)  are  among  his 
best  historical  dramas;  all  charming  verse  and,  for  the  most  part, 
intensely  dramatic.  To  the  legendary  history  of  England,  Man- 
uel Linares  Rivas  has  gone  for  the  theme  of  his  poetic  drama. 
Lady  Godiva  (1912).  As  told  by  the  Spanish  dramatist,  the  old 
story  of  Coventry  gains  much  in  interest  and  is  given  a  graceful 
Latin  touch.  The  verse  is  inferior  to  that  of  Alarquina  or  Villa- 
espesa,  as  Linares  Rivas  is  not  a  natural  poet,  but  it  is  smooth 
and  pleasing.  The  real  hero  is  the  Buffoon,  who  has  many  re- 
sem.blances  to  Shakespeare's  clowns,  and  his  philosophical  speeches 
and  keen  satire  constitute  the  chief  merit  of  the  play. 

The  drama  of  satire  in  the  hands  of  Jacinto  Benavente  has 
run  the  gamut  of  every  activity  of  life  and  of  every  class  of  society. 
In  1898  Rubén  Darío  wrote:  "Jacinto  Benavente  is  the  man  who 

smiiles In    this    whole    cataclysm,    with    which    the 

nineteenth  century  takes  leave  of  Spain,  his  head,  in  an  inviolable 
frame,  smiles. "  Nothing  can  better  characterize  the  early 
popular  impression  of  Benavente's  philosophy  and  his  attitude 
toward  life.     Called  the  George  Bernard  Shaw  of  Spain,  like  Shaw, 

^he  is  iconoclastic  and  a  reformer,  but  his  satire  is  less  coarse, 
though  no  less  keen,  tipped  with  a  subtleness  essentially  Spanish. 
Benavente  has  attained  a  position  of  unique  intellectual  and 
spiritual  domiinance,  and  consequently  is  best  known  in  the 
United  States  of  all  the  contemporaries,  as  his  plays  are  now  in 
course  of  translation  and  he  is  the  subject  of  several  excellent 
articles  and  introductions.  No  other  Spanish  writer  has  de- 
veloped the  satirical  and  intellectual  veins  with  such  success  as 
has  Benavente. 

The  ever-present  eternal  triangle  is,  of  course,  found  on  the 
Spanish  stage,  as  elsevv'here,  but  since  the  romantic  plays  of 
Echegaray,  it  has  been  less  and  less  in  evidence.  Benavente 
used  it' in  "Thy  Brother's  House"  {El  nido  ajeno,  1894),  an  Ibsen- 
esque  play,  and  it  appears  here  and  there  throughout  his  later 
work.  It  is  perhaps  characteristically  Spanish  that  the  triangular 
plot  should  more  often  include  two  men  and  one  woman.  Such 
is  the  case  in  the  play  just  mentioned,  in  Linares  Rivas'  "Air 
from  Without"  {Jire  de  fuera,  1903)  and  Maria  Victoria  (1904), 

(.Dicenta's  J^lan  José,  in  Echegaray's  well-known  "Great  Galeoto, " 


326  ASPECTS  OF  CONTEMPORARY  SPANISH  DRAMA 

Mariana^  "The  Unbalanced  Woman"  {La  Desequilibrada)  and 
many  others.  Examples  of  the  opposite,  two  women  and  one 
man,  are  Dicenta's  Aurora,  Benavente's  "The  Victor  Soul" 
{Alma  Triunfante,  1902),  and  La  Malquerida  (191 3). 

The  other  well-worn  theme  of  the  wayward  woman  is  less 
often  found  on  the  Spanish  stage.  Public  sentiment  in  Catholic 
countries,  so  different  from  that  of  Northern  nations,  is  more 
charitable  toward  the  penitent  Magdalene.  In  Dicenta's  Aurora 
the  youthful  sin  of  the  heroine  is  no  bar  to  her  union  with  the 
doctor-scientist,  Manuel,  nor  to  the  dream  of  a  Utopian  race 
that  shall  spring  from  such  a  union.  And  Leonardo  in  the  Quin- 
teros' Malvaloca  (191 2)  says  to  the  girl  who  has  been  the  mistress 
of  his  partner — and  of  others:  "I  will  also  recast  your  life  by  the 
warmth  of  my  kisses,  by  the  fire  of  this  wild  love  of  mine,  which 
is  as  great  even  as  your  misfortune. "  There  is  no  stigma  on  the 
daughter  of  the  repentant  Eleuteria  in  Electra,  save  the  scientific 
fear  that  she  may  inherit  the  tendencies  of  her  mother's  youth. 

Eduardo  Zamacois,  the  creator  of  the  erotic  novel  in  Spain, 
later  developed  so  artistically  by  Felipe  Trigo,  has  given  to  the 
theater  three  exquisite  little  plays  of  the  underworld  in  his  Teatro 
Galante  (1910).  His  demi-m.ondaines  recall  those  of  Alexandre 
Dumas,  fils;  their  sorrows  are  no  less  pathetic,  but  their  portraits 
are  more  real.  Martinez  Sierra  in  his  "Lily  among  Thorns" 
{Lirio  entre  espinas,  191 2)  pictures  the  riots  in  Barcelona,  with 
the  destruction  of  the  convents  and  monasteries.  A  nun  escapes 
and  takes  refuge  in  a  house  of  ill-fame,  where  she  is  well-received, 
and  where  her  very  presence  gives  a  touch  of  peace  and  calm, 
amid,  if  not  repentance,  at  least  contrition  and  remorse.  Linares 
Rivas'  "Foam  of  Champagne"  {La  Espuma  de  Champagne,  191 5), 
the  story  of  a  young  girl's  poverty  and  temptation,  introduces 
«ome  extremely  realistic  scenes  of  the  underworld,  the  café  scene 
in  the  third  act  suggesting  at  once  the  notorious  Fornos  in  Madrid. 
All  of  these  plays,  except  the  last  mentioned,  belong  to  the  género 
chico,  or  short  play,  and  it  is  in  that  class  that  most  of  the  Spanish 
plays  of  the  underworld  are  found. 

The  recent  vogue  of  dramas  dealing  with  social  hygiene, 
eugenics,  etc.,  has  scarcely  touched  Spain  as  yet.  But  the  themes 
of  insanity,  heredity,  neurasthenia  and  psychic-suggestion  are  of 
frequent  recurrence.  Echegaray  in  "The  Son  of  Don  Juan" 
copied  "Ghosts,"  in  "Folly  or  Saintliness"  is  a  real  or  feigned 
madness,  with  its  changing  moods,  in  "The  Unbalanced  Woman, " 
neurasthenia  susceptible  to  a  psychic  suggestion  of  madness.     To 


CHARLES  ALFRED  TURRELL  327 

Echegaray  these  are  not  scientific  problems  so  much  as  themes  of 
romance.  To  Galdós  the  scientific  phase  is  the  important  one, 
and  all  of  these  themes  appear  in  Electra,  as  does  that  of  heredity 
in  "The  Grandfather"  {El  Ahielo).  Many  of  Benavente's  plays 
introduce  pathological  characters,  as  the  neurasthenic  and  con- 
sum.ptive  Donina  in  "Saturday  Night"  {La  Noche  del  sábado, 
1903), the  invalid  Isabel  in  "The  Victor  Soul,"  the  feeble, paralytic 
Carlos  in  "Stronger  than  Love"  {Más  fuerte  que  el  Amor,  1906), 
etc.  Pathological,  too,  is  Dicenta's  "Outliving  one's  Usefulness" 
{Sobrevivirse,  1913);  and  Marquina's  "When  the  Roses  Bloom 
Again"  {Citando  florezcan  los  Rosales,  1912),  the  latter  showing 
a  case  of  a  young  girl's  neurasthenia  and  anemia  cured  by  healthy, 
physical  love.  These  are  but  a  few  examples  of  the  pathological 
element  in  the  recent  drama  of  Spain. 

While,  as  has  been  said,  the  great  world  problems  have  been 
dealt  with  for  the  most  part  in  a  peculiarly  national  and  Spanish 
fashion,  there  is  apparent  a  growing  tendency  toward  a  greater 
cosm.opolitanism.  Benavente  is  the  most  cosmopolitan  of  pres- 
ent-day writers  and  "The  Witches'  Sabbath"  {La  Noche  del 
sábado),  "The  Fire  Dragon"  {El  Dragón  de  fuego,  1904),  "The 
Ecnds  of  Interest"  {Los  Intereses  creados,  1907)  with  its  sequel, 
"The  City  of  Gaiety  and  Confidence"  {La  Ciudad  alegre  y  con- 
fiada, 1916),  as  well  as  many  others,  are  not  limited  by  the  bound- 
aries of  Spain,  but  are  international  and  universal. 

The  most  characteristic  feature  of  the  Spanish  stage  today 
is  the  development  of  the  so-called  género  chico,  or  short  play  of 
one  or  two  acts.  Nearly  forty  years  ago  this  genre  was  inaug- 
urated in  Madrid  as  a  business  proposition  to  increase  the  door 
receipts.  Its  effect  has  been  to  put  the  drama  more  and  more 
within  reach  of  the  masses  and  today  the  Spanish  people  are 
greater  theater-goers  than  any  other  nation  of  the  world.  While 
moving  pictures  are  popular  in  Spain,  as  everywhere,  they  have 
made  but  slight  inroads  on  the  acted  drama,  largely  due  to  this 
class  of  short  plays  and  the  consequent  division  of  the  perform- 
ances into  sections  at  prices  possible  for  all.  Many  of  the  plays 
already  mentioned  belong  to  the  género  chico,  as  do  many  more  of 
Benavente,  IMartinez  Sierra,  Zamacois  and  the  Brothers  Quintero. 
Some  playwrights,  such  as  Vital  Aza  and  Ramos  Carrion,  made 
and  maintained  a  reputation  for  years  simply  with  these  plays  of 
the  lesser  genre. 

Many  things  have  contributed  to  make  the  contemporary 
Spanish  stage  essentially  realistic — perhaps  as  is  the  stage  of  no 


328  ASPECTS  OF  CONTEMPORARY  SPANISH  DRAMA 

other  country.  One  has  been  the  increasing  popularity  of  the 
class  of  plays  just  discussed.  The  género  chico  was  the  direct 
descendant  of  the  saínete^  or  dramatized  picture  of  national  cus- 
toms usually  satirical  and  farcical  in  tendency,  popularized  in  the 
eighteenth  century  by  Ramón  de  la  Cruz,  and  dating  back  to  the 
entremeses  of  the  Father  of  Spanish  drama,  Lope  de  Rueda,  in 
the  sixteenth.  This  dramatization  of  national  customs  must  be 
true  to  life  to  be  appreciated,  and  its  tradition  has  been  main- 
tained with  success  in  Spain  today  by  the  brothers,  Serafín  and 
Joaquin  Alvarez  Quintero.  The  Quinteros  began  with  short 
comedies  of  the  Andalusia  they  knov/  so  well,  but  they  have 
attem.pted  to  broaden  into  more  psychologic  plays  of  Spanish 
life,  still  provincial  scenes,  but  no  longer  confined  to  the  South. 
In  com.mon  with  Benavente  and  m.ost  of  the  contemporary  play- 
wrights, they  have  discarded  the  well-made  play  of  the  mid- 
century  French  pattern,  disdaining  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
theatrical  effects  and  stage  devices  so  prevalent  in  the  works  of 
Echegaray.  The  subordination  of  plot  to  life  is  the. most  note- 
worthy feature  of  their  works.  They  contain  no  philosophical 
problems,  nothing  audacious,  and,  in  the  words  of  a  Spanish 
critic,  their  plays  are  perhaps  the  "only  ones  not  forbidden  by 
the  confessors  to  girls  of  marriageable  age. "  For  example,  their 
mention  of  the  wayward  woman  in  "The  Flowers"  {Las  Flores, 
1901)  and  "The  Centenarian"  {El  Centenario,  1909)  would  not 
offend  even  the  most  prudish.  They  are,  however,  not  weak, 
nor  are  they  strong;  they  are  merely  pictures  of  simple  life  with 
its  sim.ple  scenes,  portrayed  in  a  simple  manner.  If  there  is  an 
ethical  problem  involved,  it  is  incidental  to  the  picture,  that  is 
all.  Manuel  Bueno  says:  "Their  comedies  are  on  the  intellectual 
level  of  their  public,  for  each  time  a  personage  appears  on  the 
stage  and  speaks,  the  lady  in  her  box,  the  young  fellow  lounging 
in  his  orchestra  chair  and  the  crowd  in  the  gallery  think  simul- 
taneously: That  is  what  I  would  have  said."  Life  is  to  them  all 
rc«eate — as  bright  as  the  blazing  sun  of  their  native  province,  as 
beautiful  as  the  flower-decked  patios  of  their  beloved  Seville.  In 
"The  Wom.en's  Town",  {Pueblo  de  las  mujeres,  i9i2),for  example, 
they  depict  a  small,  isolated  village,  as  narrow  in  its  ideas  as  the 
famious  Orbajosa  of  Galdós'  Doña  Perfecta.  To  this  town  comes 
a  young  lawyer  from  the  capital — a  product  of  modern  society  and 
modern  education.  Is  there  any  clash,  any  intellectual  conflict? 
Not  at  all;  he  is  vexed,  but  at  the  same  time  amused,  by  the 
women's  gossip,  and  charmed  by  the  crude  and  silly  verses  of 


CHARLES  ALFRED  TURRELL  329 

Juanita,  as  well  as  hy  her  pretty  face,  and  all  ends  happily.  The 
combativeness  of  Doña  Filomena  in  "The  Centenarian"  is  a 
pleasant  diversion,  but  nothing  she  says  has  any  effect.  She 
comes  to  the  birthday  celebration  after  all  and  walks  arm  in  arm 
with  the  despised  Antoñón.  Is  it  all  due  to  the  Andalusian  wine.'' 
Rather  more  to  the  optimistic  temperament  of  the  authors.  The 
wayward  Gabriela  is  there,  too,  and  is  the  most  ideal  mother  of 
themi  all.  It  is  life  as  the  Quinteros  see  it,  but  we  cannot  close 
our  eyes  to  the  distinctions  of  class,  even  if  Papá  Juan  would 
ignore  them  on  his  anniversary.  The  social  evil,  the  struggle  for 
bread,  the  jealousies  of  families,  infidelity  and  deceptions  exist 
in  life,  in  Spain  as  elsewhere,  and  they  cry  out  in  a  voice  that  will 
not  be  silenced.  The  prodigal  daughters  do  com.e  back  as  Rosa 
Maria  in  "The  Flowers"  and  are  sometimes  received  with  open 
arms,  as  the  prodigal  of  the  Bible,  but  more  often  they  do  not 
come  back,  or  if  they  do,  are  cast  out  with  contempt.  And 
Andalusia  is  no  different  in  this  respect  from  the  rest  of  the 
world.  These  exam^ples  will  suffice  to  illustrate  the  Quinteros' 
attitude.  Their  scenes  have  all  the  reality  of  life,  but  are  not 
true  realism. 

In  technique,  the  Quinteros  have  attained  the  goal  expressed 
in  their  discussion  of  "The  Patio"  {El  Patio,  1900),  "without 
surprises,  intrigues,  artifices,  letters  forgotten  in  a  muff  or  tele- 
grams stuck  in  a  riding  boot,"  they  have  interested  the  public, 
and  caused  that  public  "during  the  performance  of  one  of  their 
works,  to  forget  that  they  are  in  the  theater."  This  effect  has 
been  aided  in  Spain  by  the  construction  of  many  small  theaters, 
making  declamation  and  oratory  unnecessary.  At  a  perform- 
ance in  one  of  these  practically  every  one  is  within  a  fair  conversa- 
tional range  of  the  actors.  It  is  easy,  therefore,  for  the  dialogue 
to  be  natural  and  hence  unrhetorical.  This  has  affected,  of 
course,  not  only  the  works  of  the  Brothers  Quintero,  but  to  a 
greater  or  less  degree  the  whole  contemporary  stage.  Under 
such  conditions,  elaborate  scenic  effects  would  be  out  of  place,  as 
there  would  be  little  or  no  illusion.  The  result  is  the  predomi- 
nance of  simple  drawing-room  scenes,  cafés  and  restaurants,  or 
the  lovely  Andalusian  patio  with  all  its  possibilities. 

To  sum  up,  then,  simplicity  is  the  most  striking  characteristic 
of  the  contemporary  Spanish  Stage — simplicity  in  plot,  in  cos- 
tumes, in  scenery  and  in  dialogue.  All  of  which  tends  to  bring 
the  drama  nearer  to  life.  All  literary  movements  of  other  lands 
and  other  languages   have   swayed   the   thought  of  Spain,   but 


330  L'ENVOI 

adapted  to  the  peculiar  conditions  under  which  the  Spanish 
people  still  live,  they  have,  consciously  or  otherwise,  accentuated 
these  peculiar  conditions,  thus  creating  a  stage  that  is  intensely 
national.  In  no  nation  of  the  world  today  is  there  a  coterie  of 
theatrical  writers  commensurate  vv^ith  those  here  discussed. 
And  as  the  life  of  Spain  is  becoming  more  and  more  like  that  of 
her  neighbors,  as  her  peculiarly  national  and  provincial  customs 
are  rapidly  disappearing,  so  the  semi-national  problems  of  today 
will  gradually  pass  from  the  theatrical  arena,  and,  in  the  hands 
of  these  great  contemporary  dramatists,  or  of  those  upon  whom 
their  mantle  shall  fall,  it  is  easy  to  foresee  a  dramatic  literature 
whose  themes  will  be  the  broad  themes  of  the  coming  internation- 
alism, but  treated  with  the  grace  and  charm  indigenous  to  the 
Peninsula — a  literature  that  shall  continue  the  glorious  traditions 
of  Lope  and  Calderón,  of  Zorilla  and  Gutiérrez,  of  Benavente 
and  Marquina,  and  which  will  influence  not  only  Spain  and  her 
offsprings  in  America,  but  to  which  the  whole  world  will  turn, 
for  models  of  art  and  for  inspiration. 


L'ENVOI 

By  Alison  Hastings 

The  thousand  things  I  could  not  say 
Before  I  crossed  the  sea. 
Dear  love,  the  words  I  could  not  speak, 
And  all  you  are  to  me; 

The  thousand  dreams  I  could  not  dream 
When  Life  for  gold  did  dance. 
Are  Life  to  me,  dear  love,  since  Death 
Became  a  dream,  in  France. 

The  thousand  things  I  cannot  write, 
The  things  that  I  would  do, 
Shall  all  be  yours,  dear  love,  when  God 
Shall  send  m.e  home,  to  you. 


PEACE  AT  HOME 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 
By  Georges  Courteline 

Translated  from  the  French  by  Leroy  James  Cook 

Characters 

Trielle,  5(5  years  old. 
Valentine,  his  wife,  25  years  old. 

Scene:  The  zvork-shop  of  a  literary  man.  A  door  in  the  rear, 
another  at  the  right.  At  the  left,  in  the  cant  wall,  a  real  window' 
Pictures,  engravings,  etc.  Facing  the  prompter,  a  table  covered  with 
papers.  In  the  foreground,  backed  up  against  the  left  hand  wall,  one 
of  the  high  desks  used  by  writers  accustomed  to  stand  at  their  work. 

Scene  I 

Trielle  {Alone,  standing  before  his  desk  and  counting  with  the 
end  of  his  pen  the  number  of  lilies  that  he  has  just  dashed  off). — 
274,  276,  280  and  285 — Thirty  more  sensational  lines,  about 
twenty  indented  for  paragraphs,  an  arrangement  of  suspensive 
points  and  a  suppression  for  effect  to  end  with;  if  the  reader 
doesn't  declare  himself  satisfied  with  that,  he  can  go  to  Jericho. 
What  a  profession! 

{He  dips  his  pen  in  the  ink,  starts  to  write,  sighs,  stretches  him- 
self, gives  a  deep  yawn). — So  that  bores  you,  does  it?  Come,  old 
man,  brace  up.     Take  your  cod-liver  oil. 

{He  makes  up  his  mind  to  it  and  begiiis  his  task,  dictating  to 
himself  aloud:) — "Meanwhile,  although  the  ancient  clock  of  St. 
Severin  had  long  ago,  in  the  dead  of  night,  struck  the  three  strokes 
of  three  o'clock — " 

{Interrupting  himself:) — "The  three  strokes  of  three  o'clock!" 
What  a  profession ! 


331 


332  PEACE  AT  HOME 

{He  chuckles,  shrugs  his  shoulders,  then  goes  on:) — "the  old 
man  continued  his  slow  pacing,  back  and  forth.  He  was  wrapped 
up  in  a  dark-colored  cloak  from  head  to  foot,  and  tears  falling 
from  his  eyes,  rolled  slowly  down  his  snowy  beard. " 

{Interrupting  himself:)— It's  such  nonsense  it  would  make 
one  dizzy ! 

{He  goes  on:) — "  'Oh  shame!'  he  murmured,  'oh  cruel  await- 
ing whose  scorching  sting  my  honor  still  bears  after  twenty 
years!'  " 

{Interrupting  himself :)— And  fit  for  a  lunatic  asylum. 

{He  goes  on:) — "  'What!  shall  I  forever  bear  the  burden  of 
my  humiliation!  Ye  Gods,  even  to  the  doors  of  the  tomb,  shall 
I  feel  the  blood  flow  slowly  from  my  wound,  drop  by  drop!'  " 

{Interrupting  hi?nself:) — This  little  work  is  so  stupid  that 
there  is  nothing  equal  to  it  in  stupidity,  except  the  reader  who 
delights  in  it. 

{He  goes  on:) — "The  snow  had  begun  to  fall." 

{Loud  knocks  on  the  right-hand  door). — Pshaw!  It's  my  wife, 
now ! 

{He  puts  down  his  pen.  A  new  succession  of  blows  on  the 
door.) — Eh!     Just  a  minute  there! 

{He  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.) 

{Enter  Valentine.) 

Scene  H 

Trie  lie  and  Valentine 

Valentine. — Well,  this  looks  mysterious!  You're  not  mak- 
ing counterfeit  m.oney,  are  you.^ 

Trielle. — Not  at  all.  I  had  bolted  the  door  because  I  was 
very  busy  on  my  copying  and  feared  to  be  disturbed.     Come  in. 

Valentine  {Entering). — Close  the  door  quickly,  don't  let  the 
inspiration  escape. 

Trielle. — You  always  have  something  nice  to  hand  out  to  me. 

Valentine. — Why,  you  can't  imagine  how  important  some 
people  feel,  even  going  so  far  as  to  lock  themselves  up  like  a 
precious  jewel.     On  my  word,  you  take  yourself  seriously! 

Trielle. — You're  silly. 

Valentine. — At  any  rate,  I  am  not  so  ridiculous  as  to  take 
myself  for  Lord  Byron!     So  there!     {Winking.) 

Trielle. — Now  don't  go  and  make  it  a  regular  habit  of  being 


GEORGES  COURTELINE  333 

spiteful,  Valentine.  Where  did  you  ever  think  up  that  about 
my  taking  myself  for  Lord  Byron?  I'm  telling  you  that  my 
work  {and  at  the  word  ^^workj''''  V^alentine  bursts  out  into  a  noisy 
laugh) — You  are  unkind  to  come  and  throw  it  up  against  me.  If 
you  think  that  I  do  it  for  my  pleasure,  you  are  mistaken. 

Vale7itine. — And  if  you  think  that  you're  doing  it  for  the 
pleasure  of  others,  you  are  still  more  mistaken. 

Trielle. — What  peculiar  enjoyment  can  you  get  from  saying 
only  things  that  hurt  or  are  meant  to  hurt!  Bah!  We  shall  see 
which  of  us  will  laugh  last!  (Valentine,  surprised^  looks  at  him.) 
Patience,  my  little  wildcat,  patience! 

Valeiitine. — What  .f" 

Trielle. — Patience,  I  say;  the  hour  draws  near. 

Valentine. — Do  you  know  that  you  make  me  tfiink  of  a 

Trielle. — A  simpleton ,'' 

Valentine. — Isn't  that  wonderful!     You're  a  mind-reader. 

Trielle. — Am  I  not?  That's  how  we  came  to  be  writing 
stories  for  the  daily  papers  at  three  cents  a  line.  But  perhaps  we 
should  do  just  as  well  not  to  go  any  further  into  the  subject  of 
my  sentimental  style  and  to  turn  to  serious  discussion.  You 
have  something  to  say  to  me? 

Valentine. — Probably.  At  least  I  didn't  come  expressly  to 
enjoy  your  company  and  receive  as  kindly  manna,  the  words 
that  fall  from  your  lips. 

Trielle. — 'I  shouldn't  venture  to  hope  for  that.  So  then,  you 
wish? 

ValentÍ7ie. — Money. 

Trielle. — Why,  haven't  you  any  left? 

Valentine. — A  bright  question!  No,  I  haven't  any  left.  I 
should  like  to  know  if  I  still  had  some,  where  I  might  have  got  it. 
Do  you  suppose  I  get  up  at  night  to  rob  you  ? 

Trielle. — For  Heaven's  sake,  who  is  saying  anything  to  you 
about  stealing  and  what  new  quarrel  are  you  trying  to  pick  with 
me  that  way?  I  don't  suppose  anything  at  all.  I  give  you,  the 
first  of  each  month,  the  necessary  housekeeping  money;  while 
the  month  runs  on,  the  money  runs  off,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  the  purse  is  dry  as  a  bone — simple  as  anything. 

Valentine. — Since  that  is  the  case,  pay  me  what  is  coming 
to  me  and  keep  your  fine  phrases  to  put  in  your  novels.  They 
need  them  more  than  I  do.     So  there!     {Winks.) 

Trielle. — Patience ! 

Valentine. — Beg  your  pardon? 


334 


PEACE  AT  HOME 


Trielle. — The  hour  draws  near — nearer  than  I  thought. 
Valentine. — Do  you  know  what  you  do  to  me? 
Trielle. — I  try  your  patience? 

Valentine. — Really  that's  most  unusual!  You  ought  to  set 
up  as  a  fortune-teller. 

Trielle. — I'll  think  about    it  when  I  am.  old.     Meanwhile,  we 
are  going  to  settle  our  accounts.     {He  goes  to  his  table  and  opens  the 
drawer  from  which  he  takes  out  some  bank-notes.)     The  amount  is? 
Valentine. — One  hundred  and  sixty  dollars:  you  know  per- 
fectly well. 

Trielle. — One  hundred  and  sixty  dollars  {Running  through 
the  hills:)  twenty — forty — sixty. 

Valentine. — There's  the  quarter's  rent. 

Trielle. — I'll  pay  that  separately.  Eighty— one  hundred — 
one  hundred  and  twenty.  I  am  going  to  give  you  the  rest  in 
change. 

Valentine. —     As  you  like. 

Trielle. — That  will  be  more  convenient  for  you.     {Taking 
from  the  watch  pocket  of  his  trousers  a  little  gold  and  silver  which 
he  piles  up  on  the  edge  of  the  table) — and  ten — one  hundred  and 
thirty  dollars.     There  you  have  it. 
Valentine. — Pray,  what's  that? 
Trielle. — Your  money. 
Valentine. — What  money? 
Trielle. — The  money  for  the  month. 
Valentine. — It  isn't  all  there. 
Trielle. — How's  that!  not  all  there? 
Valentine. — No. 
Trielle. — Yes. 

Valentine. — No.     Are  you  growing  simple!     From  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  dollars  take  one  hundred  and  thirty? 
Trielle. — There  remains:  thirty. 
Valentine. — Well  ? 
Trielle.— Well  what? 
Valentine. —Give  them  to  me. 
Trielle. — Oh,  no! 
Valentine. — Why  not,  pray? 
Trielle. — Because  you  owe  them  to  m.e. 
Valentine. — I  ? 
Trielle. — Yes,  you. 

Valentine. — What  fairy  tale  is  that?     You  haven't  lent  me 
any  money.     Besides,  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  squeezing  any  out 


GEORGES  COÜRTELINE  335 

of  70U  in  advance.  I  am  a  good  housekeeper — possibly.  I  am 
economical,  I  keep  things  in  order,  and  you  have  had  time  enough 
to  find  it  out  after  our  having  been  married  five  years. 

Trielle. — You  are  avoiding  the  question.  It  is  not  a  matter 
of  your  rare  virtues  but  rather  of  your  imperfections,  which,  alas! 
are  without  number.  You  are  making  fun  of  me.  How  about 
your  thirty  dollars'  fines.'* 

Valentine. — There's  no  getting  out  of  it.  I  am  talking  to  a 
madman.     What  thirty  dollars'  fines  .^ 

Trielle. — The  thirty  dollars'  fines  that  to  my  sorrow  I  have 
been  obliged  to  inflict  upon  you  in  punishment  for  your  flights  of 
language,  your  various  impertinences,  rebellions  of  all  kinds,  etc., 
etc.  {Bewildered  silence  from  Valentine.)  You  don't  under- 
stand } 

Valentine. — Not  a  word. 

Trielle. — I  am  about  to  read  you  the  details,  they  will  make  it 
plain  to  you.  {He  takes  from  his  pocket  a  little  note-book  which  he 
opens  and  from  which  he  begins  to  read:) 

"Sept.  1st.  For  having  decided  a  question,  without  knowing 
the  first  thing  about  it,  and  then  obstinately,  with  surprising 
unfairness, — knowing  that  she  was  in  the  wrong — having  stuck  to 
it  in  order  to  be  right  no  matter  what,  and  to  exasperate  Mr.  T., 
a  gentle,  temperate,  patient  man:  85c." 

Valentine. — I  say!     Who.^*     What.''     What  is  that? 

Trielle. — "Sept.  2nd.  For  having,  when  Mr.  T.  expressed  a 
desire  to  dine  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier,  had  dinner  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later  and  having  replied  to  the  above  mentioned  T. 
who  was  pleasantly  making  complaint:  Tf  you  are  not  satisfied, 
go  dine  somewhere  else.'  $1.20." 

Valentine. — Oh,  that 

Trielle. — "Sept.  3rd.  For  having  addressed  Mr.  T.  as  a 
beast,  a  scurvy  miser,  because  he  refused  to  buy,  on  the  grounds 
of  useless  expense,  an  imitation  wrought-iron  lamp  with  stained 
glass  globe:  50c. 

"Sept.  4th.  For  having  said  to  Mr.  T.  who  was  regretting 
the  lack  of  giblets  in  the  soup:  'You  always  keep  saying  the  same 
thing'— which  was  only  too  true:  29c. 

"Sept.  5th.  For  having  said  to  him:  'Do  you  recall  the  time 
I  forgave  you  for  coming  home  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.'" 

5-14.20. " 

Valentine  {Bursting  with  rage). — How  much.'' 

Trielle. — Fourteen  dollars  and  twenty  cents. 


336  PEACE  AT  HOME 

Valentine. — For  nothing  at  all. 

Trielle. — When  one  has  forgiven  any  one,  one  mustn't  be  all 
the  time  dinning  it  in  his  ears.  And  besides,  forgiven  what.-^  I 
have  explained  to  you  a  hundred  times  that  I  lost  the  last  train. 

Valentine. — Oh,  you  did'^ — I  don't  believe  you! 

Trielle. — Believe  whatever  you  please  to  believe;  but  if  you 
are  to  pursue  me  with  your  pardon,  overwhelm  me  with  your 
soul's  greatness,  and  persecute  me  with  the  remembrance  of  your 
bounties,  until  death  is  the  result — you  can  keep  them  for  your- 
self. I  prefer  your  grudges.  Anything  rather  than  be  your 
victim.  I'd  much  rather  not  be  under  obligation  to  you.  So 
there!     {He  winks.)     I  continue: 

"The  6th.  For  having  been  caught  in  the  act  of  breaking 
the  entry  lamp,  so  as  to  force  Mr.  T.  to  buy  another,  of  stained 
glass,  in  imitation  wrought-iron :  98c. 

"The  7th" 

Valentine. — Is  this  going  to  keep  up  long.^ 

Trielle. — What.^  The  system  of  fines.''  As  long  as  you 
haven't  returned  to  a  more  due  regard  for  the  attentions  to  which 
I  have  a  right  and  which  I  demand  henceforth. 

Valentine. — Attentions ! 

Trielle. — Yes. 

Valentine. — It's  perfectly  ridiculous! 

Trielle. — Of  course.  Here  it  has  been  five  years  that  I  have 
been  trying  all  kinds  of  ways  to  make  allowances  for  your  in- 
justice, and  have  been  devising  duties  for  myself  just  for  the  pur- 
pose of  having  the  bother  of  fulfilling  them.  Today,  I  go  so  far 
as  to  suppose  that  perhaps  some  day,  some  time,  by  chance,  you 
may  have  become  aware  of  it  and  have  been  touched  by  it. — I 
am  the  one  who  is  in  the  wrong  after  all.  Well,  my  dear,  I  am 
and  I  remain  so.  I  have  all  I  want  of  it,  and  you  are  beginning 
to  bore  me. 

Valentine.— VJe  are  not  in  a  stable.  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
being  spoken  to  like  that. 

Trielle. — You  will  only  have  to  take  the  trouble  of  becoming 
accustomed  to  it. 

Valentine. — That's  what  we  shall  see. 

Trielle. — It's  all  seen  to. 

Valentine. — My  dear 

Trielle. — You  want  to  get  into  an  argument.''  Come  on — 
that  will  amuse  us.  For  five  years,  I  tell  you  again,  I,  out  of  my 
good  will  have  made  allowances  for  your  ill-nature,   and  have 


GEORGES  COURTELINE  337 

constantly  sought  out  your  heart — your  heart,  which  is  there, 
for  it  is  there! — each  day  I  forgive  what  happened  the  night 
before,  in  the  even  vain  hope  for  the  morrow.  The  first  part  of 
our  married  life  I  attempted  persuasion,  exaggerating  for  your 
benefit,  as  was  fitting,  the  advantages  of  agreement,  the  joys  of 
perfect  union.  I  delivered  speeches  to  you,  speeches  dictated  by 
very  sweetness  and  gentleness — all  for  nothing.  Once  after  I 
had  tried  reasoning  for  an  hour  and  to  no  purpose,  I  lost  patience. 
I  got  up,  I  seized  you  by  your  skirts,  and  then  having  held  you 
tightly  placed  under  my  left  arm,  with  m.y  right  moving  about  in 
the  gesture  familiar  to  laundresses  at  work,  I  administered  to 
you 

Valentine. — That's  a  very  splendid  achievement!  I  should 
think  you  would    be  exultant!     Brute!     Coward!     Blackguard! 

Tnelle. — I  shall  use  your  permission  and  exult  according  to 
m.y  right.  Because  this  act  of  authority,  which  I  did  not  carry 
out  at  a  dead  loss,  inspired  you  with  some  sound  reflecting.  I 
was  able  for  some  tim^e  to  derive  the  benefit  of  it,  aided  by  some 
more  spankings  appropriately  applied,  and  always  fairly, — you 
will  render  me  that  justice.  I  am,  in  fact,  neither  a  coward  nor 
a  blackguard,  nor  a  brute  as  you  take  pleasure  in  saying.  I  am, 
good  heavens!  just  a  poor  wretch  of  a  writer. 

Valentine. — Without  any  talent  whatever 

Trielle. — Without  any  talent  whatever,  but  who  would  be 
very  glad,  nevertheless,  to  find  in  his  modest  home  a  peace,  which, 
perhaps,  in  the  long  run  would  permit  him  to  acquire  somiC. 
Unfortunately,  you  women,  you  become  satiated  immediately 
with  the  best  of  things.  I  saw  with  sadness  the  moment  drawing 
near  when  the  punishments  were  about  to  become  of  no  concern 
to  you,  until  you  reached  the  point  of  finding  them  pleasing.  It 
was  then  that  I  had  the  idea  of  taking  my  revenge  on  the  furni- 
ture. 

Valentine  {Ironically). — That  was  clever. 

Trielle. — Very  clever  indeed,  starting  with  the  day  in  which 
with  a  blow  from  the  footstool,  I  made  the  plate-glass  door  in  the 
wardrobe  fly  into  bits.  You  remained  dumb  with  amazement — 
wherefore  I  experienced  such  joy  that  in  less  than  six  weeks, 
without  regret,  I  sacrificed  to  my  eager  thirst  for  silence,  two 
chairs,  the  water-jug,  the  music-cabinet,  the  lamp,  the  clock, 
the  soup-tureen,  the  bust  of  your  uncle  Arsene — pride  of  our 
humble  drawing-room — and  various  other  objects  of  prime  necess- 
ity.    The  awkward  thing  about  it  is,  oh,  Valentine,  that  it  is  not 


338  PEACE  AT  HOME 

the  same  with  furniture  as  with  the  phoenix  which  rises  reborn 
from  its  ashes.  The  prospect  of  having  to  buy  some  to  replace  it, 
quickly  destroyed  the  keen  enjoyment  I  relished  in  breaking  the 
furniture.  Once  again,  I  must  seek  something  else.  But  what? 
Take  myself  off?  Perhaps.  But  where  to?  For  his  home  is  his 
all  to  the  man  whose  middle-class  tastes  recoil  at  fast  living,  or 
gloomy  hotel  life.  I  was  beginning  to  despair,  when  heaven 
suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  henceforth  making  you,  purely  and 
simply,  pay  for  your  faults  out  of  your  own  pocket.  A  happy 
solution,  I  venture  to  believe — definitive  in  any  case,  and  at 
which  I  stop.  So  from  this  hour  you  can  with  all  assurance, 
fortified  by  the  pledge  I  make  you  of  not  getting  angry  any  more 
under  any  pretext  whatever,  give  free  rein  to  the  outbursts  of 
your  infernal  disposition.  Whatever  you  say,  whatever  you  do, 
you  will  not  get  out  of  me  either  a  slap,  nor  the  least  call  to  order. 
Fll  simply  put  it  on  the  bill.  You  will  pay  at  the  end  of  the 
month.  Howl,  bawl,  yell,  roar,  make  scenes  to  your  heart's 
content;  disturb  as  much  as  you  like  the  repose  of  the  neighbors, 
you  have  nothing  to  trouble  yourself  about — -you  will  pay  at  the 
end  of  the  month.  No  more  quarrels,  I  have  had  enough.  No 
more  fights — I  am  tired  of  them.  Emphatically  determined  to 
have  peace  in  my  house,  and  not  having  been  able  to  obtain  it 
either  by  gentlemanly  dealing  or  by  extreme  methods,  I  resolve  to 
buy  it  with  your  own  funds — a  thing  which  wouldn't  have  hap- 
pened if  you  had  given  it  to  me  for  nothing.  I  have  spoken.  I 
won't  keep  you  any  longer.  Good-day.  You  can  go  back  to 
your  own  afi^airs.  I  am  most  sorry  to  leave  you  so  quickly;  but 
duty  calls  me,  the  hour  urges  me  on,  and  my  newspaper  doesn't 
wait. 

Valentine.— V^\\tn  you  have  chattered  all  you  w^ant,  you  can 
say  so. 

Trielle. — I  have  "chattered"  all  I  want. 

Valentine. — That's  fortunate — my  thirty  dollars. 

Trielle. — Not  a  cent. 

Valentine. — You  won't  give  them  to  me  ? 

Trielle. — No. 

Valentine. — You're  absolutely  determined? 

Trielle.— Y  ts. 

Valentine. — The  up-keep  of  the  house  is  considerable. 

Trielle. — I  know  it. 

Valentine. — We  have  expenses. 

Trielle. — I  don't  deny  it. 


GEORGES  COURTELINE  339 

Valentine. — I  warn  you  that  with  a  hundred  and  thirty- 
dollars  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  face  them. 

Trielle. — You  can  turn  your  back. 

Valentine. — As  you  like.  We'll  get  along  by  living  on  bread 
and  water. 

Trielle.— Never.  Don't  you  believe  it.  You  will  provide 
for  yourself  as  you  will  be  able;  but  if  I  do  not  find  at  my  meals 
the  healthful  and  abundant  nourishment  that  my  good  appetite— 
index  of  my  clear  conscience — requires,  I  shall  go  and  eat  at  the 
café, — at  your  expense,  of  course.  It  would  be  a  jolly  stunt  for 
m.e  to  be  put  on  dry  bread  every  time  that  you  shall  have  been 
unendurable  or  that  you  shall  have  got  caught  smashing  a  lamp. 

Valentine. — That's  your  last  word.'' 

Trielle. — The  last. 

Valentine. — Well.  {Extending  her  arm  to  the  zvindozv-frame .) 
You  are  going  to  give  m.e  my  money  or  I  am  going  to  throw 
myself  out  of  the  window. 

Trielle.— Out  of  the  window! 

Valentine.— OmI  of  the  window. 

Trielle  {Calmly  goes  to  the  zvindozi\  opens  it). — Jump! — {An 
interval) — Come,  jum^p.  (Valentine  remains  motionless,  fixing 
eyes  full  of  hatred  upon  Trielle.     At  lest:) 

Valentine. — You  would  be  too  pleased,  ruffian!  (Trielle 
closes  the  window  again  and  comes  forward — Valentin E/o//oK^zng 
him:)     Rufiian!     Ruffian!     Ruffian! 

Trielle  {At  his  table,  bent  over  his  note-book). — "Oct.  ist.  For 
having  threatened  Mr.  T.  with  committing  suicide  before  his 
eyes,  attempting  thus  to  trade  on  the  tenderness  of  this  excellent 
husband;  9gc. " 

Valentine.— CowsLvdl     Coward!     Coward! 

Trielle. — "For  not  having  done  it;  loc. " 

Valentine. — Oh,  I  know,  I  know  what  you're  looking  for!  I 
know  what  you're  driving  at!     You're  longing  for  my  decease! 

Trielle. — Decease!  {Writing.)  "15c — for  having,  in  the 
course  of  conversation,  made  use  of  an  expression  borrowed  from 
the  lexicon  of  Laura  Jean  Libby. " 

Valentine. — I've  been  sufi"ering  too  long  without  complaining. 
I've  had  enough.  I'm  going  back  to  my  family.  {She  goes  out 
like  a  whirlwind.) 


340  PEACE  AT  HOME 

Scene  III 
Trielle  alone. 

{As  if  nothing  had  take^i  place,  he  has  gone  back  to  his  desk. 
There,  dictating  to  himself:) — "But  the  old  man,  wrapped  in  his 
thought,  seemed  not  to  have  been  aware  of  it.  Suddenly,  raising 
towards  Heaven  a  look  of  proud  defiance:  'Well!,  cried  he,  'be 
thou  cursed,  God  of  Inclemency,  God  of  Injustice!  Thou  hast 
not  listened  to  my  prayers,  remain  forever  abhorred!  I  cast  thy 
name  as  food  for  the  execration  of  the  generations  to  come.' 

That's  it  and  no  mistake! — Whew!  {Wiping  his  brow:) 
What  a  profession! 

{He  goes  on:)  "As  he  was  concluding  these  frightful  blas- 
phemies—  ^^{Interrupting  himself:)  and  the  day  labourer  complains 
of  his  lot! 

{He  goes  on:)  " — a  noise  of  footsteps  disturbed  the  silence 
of  the  street. " 

{Interrupting  himself:)  And  the  ditch-digger  makes  de- 
mands. 

{He  goes  on:)  "The  pallor  of  the  old  man  changed  to  a  livid 
hue." 

{Interrupting  himself:)     And  the  cabman  goes  on  a  strike! 

{He  goes  on:)  "  'If  it  were  he,'  he  murmured,  'Oh!  to  know 
at  last  this  enemy!  To  hold  him  panting  beneath  my  knee!  To 
snatch  from  his  terror  a  confession  in  a  last  death  rattle!'  At 
this  moment,  a  stranger  issued  forth  from  La  Harpe  Street. 
The  old  man  sprang  forward  like  a  tiger,  but  immediately  a 
strange  weakness  took  possession  of  his  whole  being.  His  legs 
bent  beneath  the  weight  of  his  body,  and  uttering  a  terrible  cry, 
he  swooned!"— I  said:  "Thirty  sensational  lines."  Sensational — 
I  am  sure  of  that.  It  remains  to  be  seen  if  there  are  thirty.  Let 
us  count. 

Scene  IV 

Valentine  and  Trielle 

(Valentine  crosses  the  stage  and  reaches  the  rear  door.) 
Valentine. — Well — good-bye. 

Trielle.— Oh\  it's  you.  You  are  going  away.  Well,  good- 
bye. 


GEORGES  COURTELINE  341 

Valentine. — You  have  nothing  to  say  to  me? 

Trielle.— No.     Why? 

Valentine. — I  don't  know.     I  was  thinking  that,  perhaps 

Trielle. — You  were  mistaken. 

Valentine. — I  ask  your  pardon.' 

Trielle. — Don't  mention  it. 

Valentine.— Aher  all,  people  can  separate  because  they  were- 
n't able  to  understand  each  other,  and  for  all  that  keep  some 
regard  for  each  other. 

Trielle. — That's  evident. 

Valentine. — Isn't  it  so? 

Trielle. — Doubtless. 

Valentine. — Then — it's  understood  ? 

rnVZ/i-.— What? 

Valentine. — You  have  nothing  to  say  to  me? 

Trielle .—Hoúúng  at  all. 

Valentine. — Well — good-bye. 

Trielle. — Well — good-bye.     (Trielle   resumes   his   work.) 

Valentine. — All  the  same,  they  would  have  astounded  me 
terribly,  if  som.e  one  had  come  and  told  me  yesterday  that  you 
would  thrust  me  out. 

Trielle. — I'm  not  thrusting  you  out. 

Valentine. — All  very  well,  who  is  it  then?  What  is  it  you 
are  doing  then? 

Trielle. — I  am  not  keeping  you  back.     That's  all. 

Valentine. — But 

Trielle. — You  want  to  go, — go!  You  don't  think  I  am 
going  to  keep  you  by  force,  to  impose  myself  on  you  to  your 
dislike  and  fasten  you  to  the  wall  like  a  big  butterfly  with  a  nail 
in  the  stom.ach.  {An  interval). 

Valentine.— Ana  so — it's  nothing  to  you? 

Trielle. — What's  nothing  to  me? 

Valentine. — That  I  go  off? 

Trielle. — That  doesn't  concern  you.  What  business  is  it  of 
yours  ? 

Valentine. — It  seems  to  m^e  that,  after  my  keeping  house  for 
you  five  years,  you  might,  without  committing  yourself,  say 
something  nice  to  me  on  parting  from  me. 

Trielle. — I  hope  you'll  enjoy  good  health  and  find  where  you 
are  going,  the  happiness  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  give  you 
under  my  roof.  I  have  beaten  you  somewhat,  I  ask  your  pardon 
for  it;  although  the  blows  I  gave  you  certainly  have  been  more 


342  PEACE  AT  HOME 

painful  to  me  than  to  you,  and,  after  all,  I  am  excusable  for 
having  carried  on  like  a  lunatic  the  days  you  so  infuriated  me. 
This  said,  and  the  trial  of  this  page  of  ancient  history  over,  I  live 
in  peace  with  myself.  I  am  conscious  of  having  been  a  tender, 
faithful  husband.  Patient  under  your  demands,  resigned  to 
your  harshness,  slave  to  the  minute  attentions  for  your  least 
caprices,  and  working  ten  hours  a  day  to  write  trashy  novels — 
trashy,  yes,  but  procuring  me  the  joy  of  being  able  to  give  you  a 
home  where  you  were  warm,  and  gowns  which  made  you  beauti- 
ful. I  have  done  everything  to  make  you  happy.  You  have  not 
observed  it- — have  no  remorse  on  that  account.  It's  to  be  ex- 
pected: woman  never  sees  what  one  does  for  her,  she  only  sees 
what  one  doesn't  do. 

Valenthie. — In  any  case,  you  might  kiss  me. 

Trielle. — If  you  wish.  {He  goes  to  her,  kisses  her  coldly,  then 
comes  forzuard  to  the  front  of  the  stage.) 

Valentine  {With  a  start  to  go  oi^/).— Well — good-bye. 

Trielle. — Well — good-bye.  (Valentine  slowly  passes  through 
the  door,  hut  scarcely  has  she  disappeared,  when  she  re-enters,  puts 
down  her  bag,  and  co7ning  back  to  her  husba7id.) 

Valentine. — Give  them  to  me — my  thirty  dollars! 

Trielle  {Gently). — No. 

Valentine. — I  beg  of  you. 

Trielle. — I  cannot,  I  assure  you. 

Valentine. — Why  .^ 

Trielle. — Because  I  have  been  weak  enough  to  forgive  you  too 
many  times  and  you  have  made  m.e  pay  too  dearly  for  it.  For 
with  you  again,  there  is  no  half-way:  if  you  women  don't  fall  into 
our  hands,  it  is  we  who  fall  into  yours.— Now  pack  off.  (Valen- 
tine attempts  to  speak.)  Now  don't  insist,  I  tell  you  that  you 
are  wasting  your  time.  And  then^ — what  are  you  doing  here.^ 
You've  changed  your  mind  about  going .-^  What  for.''  I  thought 
you  had  too  much  to  put  up  with.  Come,  go,  my  dear,  be  off! 
Return  to  your  parents.     That  will  be  better  for  both  of  us. 

Valentine.— \  beg  of  you,  I  beseech  you — give  me  my  thirty 
dollars!     If  you  don't  give  them  to  me,  I  shall  go  mad. 

Trielle.' — As  for  its  having  that  effect  on  you 

Valentine. — Listen. 

Trielle  {Somewhat  annoyed,  somewhat  amused  also). — Oh. 

Valentine  {Clinging  to  him). — Please  let  me  speak.  For  the 
thirty  dollars 

Trielle. — Still  the  thirty  dollars! 


GEORGES  COURTELINE  343 

Valentine. — You  shall  keep  them  back  from  me  another 
time — next  month — when  you  please,  but  not  today!  Good 
heavens!  not  today!  Today,  you  see,  I  want  them!  I  must 
have  them!     I  need  them! 

Trielle  {Astonished  at  the  way  in  which  the  word  has  beeji  pro- 
nounced).— As  much  as  that?  Just  look  at  me  a  moment,  Valen- 
tine, You  have  done  something  foolish?  {Eloquent  silence  from 
Valentine.)     Naturally.     What? 

Valentine. — You  will  not  scold  too  hard  ? 

Trielle. — I  shall  try  not  to.     Go  on. 

Valentine. — Well — I  have  a  note  of  hand  to  pay  today. 

Trielle. — You  have  signed  a  note  of  hand? 

Valentine. — Yes. 

Trielle. — That  doesn't  surprise  me  from  you.  What  surprises 
me  is  that  you  succeeded  in  getting  it  by, — the  law  refusing  to 
the  wife  the  right  of  signing  notes  without  the  authorization  of 
the  husband.     Yours  is  null  and  void. 

Valentine. — I  beg  your  pardon. 

Trielle. — What,  you  disagree  with  me? 

Valentine. — Surely.  {Very  simply.)  I  imitated  your  sig- 
nature to  make  it  believed  that  it  was  from  you. 

Trielle  {Astounded). — And  you  come  and  tell  me  that  with 
your  unconcerned  manner!     Why,  it  is  a  forgery! 

Valentine. — What  of  it? 

Trielle  {At  this  unexpected  reply,  made  in  a  tone  of  absolute 
innoce7ice,  Trielle  remains  speechless.  He  looks  for  a  long  time 
at  the  young  woman  as  if  struck  with  admiration). — I'd  like  to  find 
some  one  who  could  answer  to  that!  {He  completes  his  thought 
with  a  helpless  gesture,  then:)     How  much  is  the  note  ? 

Valentine. — Thirty  dollars. 

Trielle. — Bungler!  No  half-way  measures  about  you,  are 
there?     {A  paused     A  purchase,  perhaps? 

Valentine. — A  purchase,  in  fact. 

Trielle. — Indispensable  ? 

Valentine. — As  you  look  at  it. 

Trielle. — Necessary,  at  least? 

Valentine. — That  depends. 

Trielle. — Well  then, — useful? 

Valentine. — Yes  and  no. 

Trielle  {Struck  with  an  idea). — A  stained-glass  lamp? 

Valentine  {Putting  her  head  down). — Imitation  wrought-iron. 

Trielle. — She  has  managed  to  get  it  and  no  mistake!     Do 


344  PEACE  AT  HOME 

you  know  that  young  ones  get  boxed  on  the  ears,  who  have 
deserved  it  less  than  you?  Can  one  conceive  of  such  a  desire  for 
a  lamp!  {He  keeps  up  a  querulous  tone,  but  conviction  is  lacking. 
Deep  within,  one  feels  that  he  is  losing  ground  before  this  excessive 
simplicity.)  Well! — and  where  have  you  hidden  away  this — 
work  of  art?  Go  find  it  for  me  that  I  may  gaze  upon  it!  That 
I  may  let  my  eyes  drink  their  fill,  in  ecstasy!  {But  Valentine 
does  not  stir.)  Come!  Run!  Fly!  Leap!  —No?  (Valen- 
tine in  fact  has  given  an  embarrassed  nod  to  signify:  "A'^o.")  You 
don't  want  to?  {Same  gesture  from  Valentine.)  Come,  come, 
come — look  at  me  again.  {With  much  gentleness.)  You  have 
broken  it? 

Valentine. — In  carrying  it.  {And  as  Trielle  fixes  upon  her 
a  glance  filled  with  i7nmense  glee:)  It  is  not  my  fault,  if  it  was 
trash!  It  was  so  stylish!  Everybody  would  have  been  taken 
with  it.  So,  what  can  you  expect,  I  let  m.yself  be  tempted. 
— and  it  was  then,  you  know,  that  I  proposed  to  the  storekeeper — 
just  as  if  I  came  authorized  by  you — that  he  give  us  credit  until 
the  end  of  the  month,  in  return  for  a  little  written  agreement. 
Then,  the  storekeeper  said,"yes" — then  I  handed  him  the  writing 
— which  I  had  prepared  beforehand.  And  when  I  got  home  and 
undid  the  paper  to  take  out  the  lamp,  the  thingumbob  remained 
in  one  hand,  the  what  d'you  call  it  in  the  other.  That  is  how  it 
happened.  {All  this  tale  has  been  told  in  the  tearful  voice  of  a  little 
beggar-girl,  shaken  with  ill-restrained  sobs.  Trielle  has  liste?ied 
seriously  to  her,  refraining  from-  interruption;  his  head  moving  now 
and  then  with  those  approving  nods  that  make  fun,  while  appearing 
to  judge.     But  Valentine  having  fi?iished:) 

Trielle  {Mimicking  her). — The  thingumbob  remained  in  one 
hand,  the  what  d'you  call  it  in  the  other.  {Changing  his  tone.) 
Come,  you  are  too  foolish.  You  baffle  me!  Here  are  your  thirty 
dollars.  And  just  copy  my  signature  again;  you'll  have  a  chance 
on  that  occasion  to  see  whether  I'll  not  have  you  put  in  prison. 
Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself! 

Valentine. — Thank  you,  Edward. 

Trielle  {Uncommonly  exasperated). — Forger!  Good-for- 
Nothing!     Go  hide  your  face! 

Valentine. — And  the  other? 

TriVZ/i".— What  other? 

Valentine. — The  other  thirty  dollars. 

Trielle. — Ah,  come  now!  my  word!  That's  the  limit!  Must 
we  again? 


GEORGES  COURTELINE  345 

Valentine. —-To  be  sure!  It's  only  right.  Those  are  to  pay 
your  note. 

Trielle  {His  eyes  raised). — My  note!  Come,  be  off!  Don't 
let  me  see  you  again,  don't  let  me  hear  you  mentioned  again. 

Valentine. — Then — you .' 

Trielle. — When  the  note  falls  due,  I  shall  see  what  I  have  to 
do.  {Suddenly,  delivered  at  the  same  time  from  a  fear  of  a  cut  in 
her  allowance,  and  of  the  terror  of  the  police,  Valentine  is  moved — 
she  goes  to  Trielle  looks  long  into  his  eyes.  Then,  in  a  voice  in 
which  is  discernible  the  deep  surprise  of  a  person  all  at  once  making 
an  unexpected  discovery.) 

Valentine. — It's  true,  all  the  same,  you  are  a  good  husband. 

Trielle. — It  is  a  pity  you  become  aware  of  it  only  on  the  day 
in  which  I  succeed  in  making  you  afraid.  {She  does  not  reply, 
save  hy  a  slight  movement,  tender  and  coaxing,  remorse  awakening 
a  caress.  She  glides  ifito  his  arms,  which  he  then  circles  about  her 
waist.  Then  she  remains  snuggled  in  his  embrace,  timidly,  her 
forehead  resting  on  the  shoulder  of  the  young  man  who  has  allozved 
her  to  do  it  without  saying  a  word.) 

Trielle  {Sorrowfully). — ^^Gia  kepkale,^^  says  Esop's  fox,  ^^ kai 
egkephalon  otik  ekei.  "* 

Valentine. — What  are  you  saying.^ 

Trielle. — Nothing.     It's  Greek. 

Valentine  {Vaguely  flattered). — How  nice  you  are  when  you 
want  to  be !  {She  goes  out  slowly,  her  money  in  her  hand.  Trielle 
follows  her  with  his  glance.) 

Trielle. — What  childishness,  good  heavens!  — What  lack  of 
responsibility!  What  weakness!  {She  disappears  at  last.  Tri- 
elle remains  alone,  then  he  shrugs  his  shoulders, — and  in  a  scarcely 
atidible  voice,  he  murmurs,  his  heart  filled  with  pity,  this  simple 
exclamation.)  The  pity  of  it!  {Meanwhile,  work  claims  him. 
Again  he  comes  back  to  his  desk,  where,  finishing  the  verifying  of 
the  lines  and  arrangement  of  his  article.)  317,  319,  320.  It's  the 
right  number.  {He  says,  dips  his  pen  in  the  ink,  then  dictating  to 
himself.)     "Continued  in  the  next  number." 

Curtain 

*Pretty  head,  but  empty. 


GARDENS  AND  THE  ENGLISH 

POETS 

By  J.  C.  Wright,  F.  R.  S.  L. 

CHAUCER'S  love  for  France  and  for  French  literature 
is  well  known,  but  he  struck  out  anew  line  when  he 
put  his  own  thought  and  feeling  into  English  verse. 
The  French  writers  loved  the  rose,  and  made  it  the 
emblem  of  the  beauty  of  a  high-born  lady;  but  as  soon 
as  Chaucer  began  to  write  poetry,  he  chose  for  his 
favourite  flower  the  little  English  daisy,  with  its  pure,  white  frill 
and  shining  gold  within. 

Of  all  the  flowres  of  the  mead 

Then  love  I  most  these  flowres  white  and  and  red, 

Such  as  men  callen  daisies  in  their  town. 

And  we  cannot  think  that  this  great  Nature  lover  would  be 
indifferent  to  the  cultivation  of  plants  and  flowers.  Indeed,  we 
find  that  though  his  chief  delight  was  to  observe  Nature  in  her 
"wilful  ways,"  he  spent  much  care  over  his  garden  at  Eltham, 
with  its  terraces  and  shady  walks.  As  for  trees,  he  was  an  expert, 
having  charge  of  the  Royal  parks. 

The  Rev.  W.  J.  Loffie  gives  a  delightful  and  fascinating  ac- 
count of  Eltham.  The  palace,  he  says,  could  not  but  have  ex- 
cited the  admiration  of  a  poetical  mind. 

To  his  gorgeous  visions,  beautiful  as  they  appeared,  something  far 
more  beautiful  seemed  possible.  His  care  seems  to  have  been  chiefly 
for  the  gardens,  and  terraces,  and  shady  walks.  We  are  not,  therefore, 
surprised  to  find  frequent  reference  in  his  poems  to  gardens.  A  long 
list  can  be  made  of  trees  such  as  must  have  been  in  Chaucer's  charge. 

In  a  book  entitled  Description  of  England  published  about 
the  year  1577,  an  interesting  chapter  is  found  on  gardening,  in 
which  the  author  tells  us  his  "little  plot"  has  "verie  neare  three 
hundred  of  one  sort  and  other  contained  therein,  no  one  of  them 
being  common  or  usually  to  be  had."     Shakespeare  was  then 

346 


J.  C.  WRIGHT  347 

but  a  youth,  and  we  do  not  know  whether  he  saw  the  book  or  not. 
But  we  know  his  love  for  gardens  was  great:  that  at  New  Place 
seems  to  have  been  of  considerable  size  and  was  long  famed  for 
its  mulberries.  "Pleasure  gardens,"  says  Sir  Sidney  Lee,  "were 
an  exclusive  characteristic  of  the  great  manor  houses  in  the  sur- 
rounding country,  but  it  is  certain  that  flowers  and  a  few  cooking 
and  medicinal  plants  were  cultivated  in  the  small  plots  of  the 
town,  (Stratford-on-Avon),  and  it  is  quite  possible  that  more 
ambitious  attempts  at  horticulture  were  made  in  the  exception- 
able large  gardens  of  New  Place  and  the  Cottage.  Elm  trees 
were  a  very  common  feature  of  the  Stratford  Gardens  and  Shakes- 
peare frequently  indicates  a  significant  familiarity  with  the  prun- 
ing of  trees  and  the  simpler  operations  of  horticulture." 

It  is  interesting  to  visit  the  garden  at  the  rear  of  Shakespeare's 
house,  where,  if  the  plants  are  not  the  same  as  in  the  poet's  time, 
there  are  preserved  many  that  are  mentioned  in  his  works,  along 
with  a  number  of  fruit  trees,  which  were  also  cultivated  by  him. 
We  know  he  was  fond  of  the  rose,  the  lily,  and  the  iris  or  flower- 
de-luce,  as  it  was  then  called.  The  hyacinth  had  been  imported 
from  the  East,  and  was  known  as  the  jacinth.  Many  of  the 
beautiful  delicate  garden  poppies,  so  fashionable  of  recent  years 
in  our  own  gardens,  were  growing  then,  and  were  tended  by  the 
ladies  of  the  household. 

In  a  corner  of  Waterlow  Park,  Highgate,  London,  half  hidden 
amidst  copper  beeches,  and  heavily-bearing  fruit  trees  there  may 
be  seen  a  spot  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  the  great  dramatist. 
It  is  a  fitting  neighbourhood  for  such  a  garden.  Those  who  had 
the  planning  of  this  pretty  corner  might  have  read: 

Here's  flowers  for  you; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savoury,  marjoram; 

The  marigold  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun 
.     bold  oxlips  and 
The  crown  imperial;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one 
To  make  you  garlands  of. 

Here  is  a  garden  full  of  the  old-fashioned  flowers  and  herbs, 
with  no  trace  of  artificial  culture  to  spoil  it. 

You  can  sit  on  the  low,  warm,  red-brick  wall,  moss-grown  and 
brown  with  age,  and  count  the  flowers  that  Shakespeare  loved.  Soft 
green  clumps  of  hyssop  alternate  with  groups  of  balm  and  herb  worm- 
wood; the  flower-de-luce  nods  its  stately  head  beside  the  delicate  sum- 


348  GARDENS  AND  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

mer  aconite;  Shakespeare's  honeysuckle  is  throwing  out  soft  green 
tendrils  to  catch  the  thorny  old  English  sweetbriar  that  grows  near  by, 
and  is  brightly  starred  with  fragile  pink  petals.  Fennel  and  gilly- 
flowers or  carnations,  just  abud,  pink-eyed  daisiss,  saxifrage  and  rose- 
mary, pansy  and  peonies,  roses  of  the  sweet  old  kind,  in  masses  are  all 
here  in  a  glorious  confusion  that  went  out  of  fashion  for  gardens,  with 
sundials  and  box-walks  in  the  days  of  our  great-great-grandfathers 
and  can  scarcely  be  imitated  in  the  twentieth  century. 

There  is  a  garden,  too,  at  Golder's  Hill,  Hampstead,  where 
it  is  said  every  flower  mentioned  in  Shakespeare's  works  is  to  be 
found.  The  residents  in  the  neighbourhood  are  very  apprecia- 
tive of  this  garden,  but  visitors  sometimes  regard  it  with  apparent 
indifference  if  we  may  judge  from  the  following  colloquy:  "Here's 
Shakespeare's  garden"  said  one.  "Shakespeare,  what  Shakes- 
peare.?" queried  his  friend,  and  continued,  "Oh,  himV  as  he 
realized  the  fact  that  the  poet  was  meant. 

Cowley  was  a  lover  of  gardens,  and  his  quiet,  contemplative 
spirit  is  shown  in  his  Essays  and  verse.     He  could  write: 

My  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace,  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  Garden,  painted  o'er 
With  Nature's  hand,  not  Art's,  should  pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

He  never  seems  to  be  weary  of  the  country  and  of  rural  ways, 
and  finds  happiness  in  trees  and  rivers.  Of  the  former  he  thus 
expresses  his  admiration: 

Hail,  old  patrician  trees,  so  great  and  good! 
Hail,  ye  plebeian  underwood! 

His  poems  on  plants  is  really  a  Culpepper's  Herbal.  He  makes  the 
various  flowers  rejoice  as  if  they  were  conscious  of  their  beauty — 
for  instance  the  Amaranth: 

Look  up,  the  gardens  of  the  sky  survey, 
And  stars  that  there  appear  so  gay. 
If  credit  may  to  certain  truth  be  given, 
They  are  but  the  amaranths  of  heaven. 

And  of  the  White  Lily: 


J.  C.  WRIGHT  349 

Nature  on  many  flowers  beside 

Bestows  a  mucld7  white; 
On  me  she  placed  her  greatest  pride, 

All  over  clad  in  light. 

He  says:  "I  never  had  any  other  desire  so  strong,  and  so  like 
to  covetousness,  as  that  one  which  I  have  had  always,  that  I 
might  be  master  at  last  of  a  small  house  and  large  garden,  with 
very  moderate  conveniences  joined  to  them,  and  there  dedicate 
the  remainder  of  my  life  only  to  the  culture  of  them  and  the  study 
of  Nature,"     And  in  his  Garden  he  writes: 

Who  that  has  reason  and  his  smell 
Would  not  among  roses  and  jasmine  dwell, 
Rather  than  all  his  spirits  choke, 
With  exhalations  of  dirt  and  smoke, 
And  all  the  uncleanness  which  does  drown 
In  pestilential  clouds  a  populous  town? 

And  again: 

When  God  did  man  to  His  own  likeness  make, 
As  much  as  clay,  though  of  the  purest  kind 

By  the  Great  Potter's  art  refined, 

Could  the  Divine  impression  take. 

He  thought  it  fit  to  place  him  where 

A  kind  of  heaven,  too,  did  appear, 
As  far  as  earth  could  such  a  likeness  bear. 

"Herrick,"  says  Lord  Morley,  "was  one  of  Nature's  poets. 
Though  he  was  happiest  as  comrade  of  the  poets  of  the  town,  and 
loved  no  scenery  so  well  as  that  of  Cheapside  and  the  Strand; 
though  he  abuses  the  rocky  stream  of  Dean  Burn  that  breaks 
down  from  the  moor  through  a  wild  little  valley  and  feeds  water- 
cresses  by  the  long  and  empty  road  between  his  parsonage  and 
the  few  houses  of  Dean  Prior,  the  love  of  flowers  runs  through  all 
his  verse."  From  early  violets  to  fading  daffodils  he  has  a  wide 
range.     Of  the  former  he  writes : 

Welcome,  maids  of  honour, 

You  do  bring 

In  the  spring; 
And  wait  upon  her. 

And  his  well-known  lines  To  Daffodils,  so  indicative  of  affec- 
tion are  also  full  of  delightful  suggestion: 


350  GARDENS  AND  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  >et  the  early  rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon. 

Alexander  Pope  indulged  in  gardens  lavishly.  The  suc- 
cess of  his  Homer  translation  made  him  a  comparatively  rich  man. 
He  moved  to  Twickenham  where  he  bought  a  pretty  villa  which 
his  name  has  made  famous.  Attached  to  the  villa  were  about 
five  acres  of  land  laid  out  according  to  the  strangely  artificial 
style  of  that  day.  He  "twisted  and  twirled  and  rhymed  and 
harmonized"  his  ground  until  it  became  "two  or  three  sweet 
little  lawns  opening  and  opening  beyond  one  another,  and  the 
whole  surrounded  with  impenetrable  woods."  A  portion  of 
these  was  separated  by  the  public  road,  and  Pope  had  a  tunnel 
dug  to  connect  them.  Connected  with  a  grotto  by  a  narrow 
passage  were  two  porches,  one  towards  the  river,  of  smooth  stones, 
the  other  towards  the  gardens,  shadowed  with  trees,  rough  with 
shell,  flints  and  iron  ore.  The  bottom  was  paved  with  pebble  as 
was  also  the  adjoining  vv^alk  up  the  wilderness  to  the  temple. 

Here  in  calm  retirement  Pope  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time, 
and  entertained  his  friends.     Here  he  sang: 

All  the  distant  din  the  world  can  keep 
Rolls  o'er  my  Grotto,  and  but  soothes  my  sleep. 
Here,  my  retreat  the  best  companions  grace. 
Chiefs  out  of  war,  and  statesmen  out  of  place. 
Here,  Saint  John  mingles  with  my  friendly  bowl 
The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul. 

Pope  spent  some  £5,000  on  his  house  and  gardens.  It  is 
said  he  had  a  haunting  fear  that  the  place  would  one  day  be  sold 
to  a  sugar  broker  or  a  brewer,  and  he  looked  in  vain  for  a  friend 
to  whom  he  might  leave  it,  who  would  preserve  it  unchanged. 
His  fears  were  realized,  for  after  his  death  the  villa  was  sold  to 
Sir  W.  Stanhope,  who  altered  the  house  and  practically  destroyed 
the  garden.  A  later  purchaser,  annoyed  by  admirers  of  Pope 
coming  to  the  place,  razed  the  villa  to  the  ground  and  stubbed 
up  the  trees  that  remained.  Today  a  building,  something  be- 
tween a  Swiss  chalet  and  a  Chinese  pagoda  may  be  found  on  the 
grounds. 

But  though  Pope's  handiwork  is  lost  to  us,  his  ideas  about 
gardening  remain  and  interest  us.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to 
discover  that  there  was   a  monotony   "when  grove  nodded  to 


J.  C.  WRIGHT  351 

grove,  and  each  alley  had  its  brother,"  and  he  insisted  that 
Nature  must  "never  be  forgot,"  and  that  one  must  "consult  the 
genius  of  the  place  in  all;"  and  though  his  methods  would  prob- 
ably not  commend  themselves  to  present-day  tastes,  they  were 
indicative  of  the  changes  that  were  to  come  in  respect  of  our 
gardens. 

Cowper's  love  for  gardens  is  specially  shown  in  his  Task. 
From  "thickets  and  brakes  entangled,"  he  portrays  the  evolution 
of  that  "delightful  industry  enjoyed  at  home,"  the  garden  where 

Nature  in  her  cultivated  trim 
Dress'd  to  his  taste, 

invited  him  forth.  Enlarging  on  the  care  required  in  the  upkeep 
of  a  garden,  he  proceeds: 

O  bless'd  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world 
Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys!     Retreat 
Cannot  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  foliies  past; 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil. 

Crabbe  lived  well  on  to  the  last  century.  He  was  a  keen 
student  of  Nature,  and  the  garden  was  to  him  a  source  of  con- 
stant delight.  In  a  letter  written  from  Hampshire,  where  he 
spent  a  short  holiday,  he  writes  that  among  his  greatest  pleasures 
was  that  of  visiting  the  garden  where  "I  walk  and  read:  the  smell 
of  the  flowers  is  fragrant  beyond  anything  I  ever  perceived  be- 
fore." 

Crabbe  believed  that  the  lives  of  the  deserving  poor — of 
whom  he  sang — could  be  made  brighter  and  happier  by  the  culti- 
vation of  plants  and  flowers.  In  the  little  plot  of  the  cottager 
he  saw  some  indications  of  freedom  from  the  otherwise  hard  lot 
of  the  labourer.     And  he  writes: 

It  is  his  own  he  sees;  his  master's  eye 
Peers  not  about,  some  secret  fault  to  spy ; 
Nor  voice  severe  is  there,  nor  censure  known; 
Hope,  profit,  pleasure — they  are  all  his  own. 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  poetry  is  full  of  Nature  as  she  reveals 
herself  out-of-doors.  We  must  understand  Scott's  surroundings, 
and  his  various  occupations,  to  know  his  love  for  gardens.  He 
expressed  his  intense  delight  with  his  first  cottage  garden:  "to 


352  GARDENS  AND  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

be  sure,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  much  of  a  lion  to  show  a  stranger," 
but  he  and  his  wife  turned  out  by  moonlight  to  admire  the  product 
of  their  toil.  And  when  he  took  up  his  residence  in  Selkerkshire, 
he  wrote : 

Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn, 

That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 

Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen. 

You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken 

So  thick  the  tangled  greenwood  grew. 

So  feeble  trilled  the  streamlet  through. 

Of  Landor  it  was  said  he  was  "the  born  artist."  Keenly 
susceptible  to  the  influences  of  Nature,  he  could  not  bear  the 
unnecessary  plucking  of  a  flower,  or  the  felling  of  a  tree.  With 
fine  delicacy  he  thus  expresses  himself: 

I  never  pluck  the  rose;  the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank 
■  And  not  reproached  it;  the  ever-sacred  cup 
Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 
Fell  safe,  unsoiled,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 

A  curious  story  is  told  of  Landor  which,  though  not  literally 
true,  serves  to  illustrate  his  love  for  flowers.  Terrible  things 
have  been  attributed  to  the  erratic  poet,  and  one  of  them  runs 
that  in  a  fit  of  anger,  he  threw  the  cook  out  of  the  window,  and 
then,  looking  down  into  the  garden,  exclaimed:  "Good  God! 
I  had  forgotten  the  violets!"  But  there  was  something  growing 
about  Landor's  house  even  better  than  violets— a  choice  spirit, 
and  a  strangely  original  writer. 

Wordsworth,  the  teacher  of  "plain  living  and  high  think- 
ing, "  though  a  lover  of  wild  life,  was  fond  of  his  garden,  and  des- 
cribed the  gardens  of  the  humble  peasant  and  of  the  sturdy 
yeoman  alike.  He  writes  lovingly  of  the  cottager's  plot,  "with 
its  shed  for  bee-hives,  its  small  bed  of  pot-herbs,  and  its  borders 
and  patches  of  flowers  for  Sunday  posies,  with  sometimes  a  choice 
few,  too  much  prized  to  be  plucked." 

In  his  Guide,  Wordsworth  mentions  a  practice,  which  he  calls 
ornamental  gardening.  That  was  beginning  to  be  prevalent 
over  England — the  desire  for  natural  scenery.  And  when  he 
proceeds  to  write  on  the  decoration  of  houses,  so  far  as  the  ex- 
terior is  concerned,  he  advises  that  the  work  should  be  carried 
out  "in  the  spirit  of  Nature,  with  an  invisible  hand  of  Art." 
Always,  it  will  be  observed,  he  insists  on  naturalness:  exotic 
plants  he  will  allow,  "provided  they  be  confined  almost  to  the 
doors  of  the  house. " 


J.  C.  WRIGHT  353 

Though  this  poet  of  Nature  loved  supremely  the  open  ex- 
panse of  hea\'en,  he  did  not  the  less  enjoy  the  terrace  walk  and 
flowering  alley  of  his  garden  at  Rydal  Mount.  Bishop  Words- 
worth has  described  it  for  us.  He  tells  us  of  "the  tall  ash-tree 
in  which  a  thrush  has  sung  for  hours  together,  during  many 
years;"  of  the  "laburnum  in  which  the  osier  cage  of  the  doves 
was  hung;"  of  the  stone  steps  "in  the  interstices  of  which  grew 
the  yellow  flowering  poppy,  and  the  wild  geranium  of  Poor 
Robin" 


Gay 
With  his  red  stalks  upon  a  sunny  day. 

And  then  of  the  terraces — one  levelled  for  Miss  Fenwick's 
use,  and  welcome  to  himself  in  after  years;  and  one  ascending,  and 
leading  to  the  "far  terrace"  on  the  mountain's  side,  where  the 
poet  was  wont  to  murmur  his  verses  as  they  came. 

In  turning  from  Wordsworth  to  Tennyson  we  notice  the 
marked  contrast  between  the  two  poets:  the  former  is  satisfied 
with  the  cultivation  of  the  simplest  flowers  in  the  garden;  the 
latter  writes  of 

A  grassy  walk 
Through  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned. 
The  garden  stretches  southwards.     In  the  midst 
A  cedar  spreads  his  dark-green  layers  of  shade. 

In  his  picture  of  Audley  Court,  there  is  a  fastidiousness,  a 
sense  of  the  appreciation  of  the  pleasure  afforded  by  the  cultiva- 
tion of  Nature,  which  is  particularly  striking. 

By  many  a  sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we  reached 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  passed  through  all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores, 
And  crossed  the  garden  to  the  gardener's  lodge, 
With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its  walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 

And  in  Tennyson's  Clara  Vere  de  Fere  he  thus  describes  the  Old 
Gardener: 

From  yon  blue,  blue  sky  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 


354  GARDENS  AND  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

But  Tennyson  is  only  echoing  Shalcespeare,  who  says:  "There 
are  no  ancient  gentlemen  but  gardeners;  they  hold  up  Adam's 
profession." 

"There  are  gardens  in  In  Memoriam.  There  is  that  most 
enchanted  island,  where  the  Lotos  Eaters  lie  forever  'propt  on 
beds  of  amaranth.'  .  .  .  There  is  the  garden  of  Amphion, 
where  such  a  sportive  fancy  deals  in  such  merry  wise  with  a  most 
quaint  legend,  and  sums  up  as  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter: 

Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 
A  little  garden  blossom. 

The  name  of  the  late  poet-laureate  Mr.  Alfred  Austin  is 
so  intimately  associated  with  gardens  that  his  views  always 
receive  the  consideration  they  so  eminently  deserve.  Mr. 
Austin's  tastes  reveal  not  merely  the  cultured  mind,  but  the  soul 
aflame  with  a  love  for  the  beautiful  in  Nature;  indeed,  it  has  been 
said  that  his  verse  is  full  of  the  spirit  of  English  gardens,  of  flov/er 
scented  air,  of  showers  among  heavy  leaves.  In  Love's  Widozv- 
hood  the  poet  describes  the  cottage  which  "had  grown  more 
human  year  by  year."     And  well  it  might. 

For  on  a  garden  ever  did  it  gaze 
That  still  decoyed  the  sunshine's  shifting  rays, 
And  bloomed  with  flowers  which  brightened  so  the  air, 
That  folks  who  passed  would  halt  and  wish  their  house  were 
there. 
Then    Mr.    Austin    enumerates    some    of    the    flowers — old 
fashioned  balsams,  snap-dragons,  red  and  white  primroses,  daisies, 
crimson    phlox,    white    anemones,    lithe    lilies,    homely-smelling 
stocks,   sunflowers  green  and  gold,  gorgeous  hollyhocks,  proud 
gladioli,    loose    woodbine,    and    fragrant    mignonette.     Nor    did 
this  garden  contain  flowers  only— fruits,  "that  in  September  are 
themselves  like  flowers,"  were  there. 

"One  would  naturally  expect,"  says  Mr.  Austin,  "peace  to 
reign  uninterrupted  in  a  Garden,  if  anywhere.  The  very  word 
suggests  tranquillity,  retirement,  aloofness  from  contending  pas- 
sion, even  from  conflicting  emotions,  and,  above  all,  from  the 
heats  of  controversy;  and,  doubtless,  what  the  name  suggests 
the  garden  itself  corresponds  with  to  the  casual,  unconcerned 
visitor,  who,  coming  up  to  it  from  the  paving-stones  of  Pall  Mall 
or  the  ballroom  floors  of  Mayfair,  exclaims:  'There!'  seats  himself 
among  its  invisible  perfumes,  lets  his  eyes  wander  over  its  rainbow 
colours,  or  saunters  among  its  summer  roses  or  its  autumnal 
lilies." 


J.  C.  WRIGHT  355 

The  late  poet-laureate  is  particularly  fond  of  the  rose.  "What 
is  there,"  he  remarks,  "the  rose  cannot  and  will  not  do?  It  will 
cover  the  palaces  of  kings,  and  just  as  gladly  embroider  the 
porches  of  the  lowly.  It  is  as  happy  in  the  untrimmed  hedge  as 
in  the  well-ordered  garden.  It  can  look  after  itself,  and  needs 
no  more  help  than  the  cloud  or  the  wave.  Yet  it  tolerates  inter- 
ference with  no  loss  of  temper,  and  with  its  habitual  smile.  Roses 
hold  full  court  only  in  summer,  but  they  reign  during  three  of  the 
seasons  of  the  year,  and  are  not  always  absent  from  their  king- 
dom during  the  fourth." 

For  the  formal  garden  Mr.  Austin  has  little  affection.  He 
fears  that  the  passion  for  faultlessness  that  presides  within-doors 
is  invading  the  garden.  An  ill-kept  garden  is  not  to  be  allowed 
any  more  than  an  ill-kept  house,  but  where  are  we  to  stop.^  "Is 
there,"  he  asks,  "to  be  a  weed  nowhere,  and  are  the  trees  and 
shrubs  in  none  of  the  borders  to  have  a  will  and  way  of  their 
own. " 

If  Nature  worked  by  rule  and  square, 
Than  Man  what  wiser  would  she  be? 

What  wins  us  is  her  careless  care 
And  true  unpunctuality. 

"A  Garden,"  he  says,  "to  my  thinking,  is  neither  a  museum 
nor  a  laboratory,  a  place  neither  for  learned  collections,  nor  for 
ingenious  experim.ents.  Collecting  rare  plants,  and  growing 
specimen  flowers,  are  something  quite  different  from  cultivating 
a  garden.  When  I  am  shown  so  many  square  feet  of  Love-in-the 
Mist,  then  a  bare  patch  of  soil,  then  more  bare  soil,  and  so  on, 
I  am  disposed  to  enquire  if  the  flowers  are  grown  for  market,  and 
are  compelled  to  observe  that  the  cultivation  of  them  in  this 
fashion  is  no  more  difficult  than  the  cultivation  of  radishes,  or 
the  sowing  of  carrots.  They  bear  the  same  relation  to  a  real 
garden  that  the  words  in  the  dictionary  bear  to  a  beautifully 
written  book.  They  are  the  materials  out  of  which  a  garden 
may  be  made,  but  of  themselves  they  do  not  constitute  a  garden." 


OUR  MORIBUND  VERSE 

By  Phyllis  Ackerman 

MUCH  of  the  poetry  today  that  calls  itself  newverse 
is  old,  very  old  with  the  senility  of  emotion- 
deadened  nerves.  It  is  not  new,  not  the  beginning 
of  a  fresh  development;  but  is  the  last  exquisite 
spasm  of  a  moribund  art.  For  it  is  the  expression 
of  sensation  satiety,  the  search  for  a  new  thrill  by 
nerves  too  worn  with  thrills  to  answer. 

There  is  a  fresh  young  poetry  that  is  opening  for  itself  a  new 
field  by  rediscovering  the  normal  world  around  and  rediscovering 
poetry's  function  of  conveying  the  flavor  of  that  normal  world. 
But  this  is  a  shy,  young  poetry  easily  obscured  by  its  full-blown 
sister  that  exploits,  not  the  normal,  but  the  abnormal. 

For  this  moribund  poetry,  since  it  is  trying  to  titillate  an 
over-vibrated  sensibility  must  turn  to  the  abnormal.  It  turns  to 
the  abnormal  in  ideas,  strained  experiences,  and  neurotic  types. 
It  turns  to  the  abnormal  in  its  sets,  unlocated  lands  of  curious 
custom.     It  turns  to  the  abnorm.al  in  its  phrases. 

The  abnormal  phrase  is  the  sine  qua  non  of  this  branch  of  the 
new  verse.  It  must  bring  together  words  apparently  antithetical; 
link  with  a  vivid  turn  of  syllables  sense  experiences  unconnected, 
especially  odors  with  other  realms  of  life;  and  it  must  subtilize  with 
adjectives  inapplicable  to  their  nouns.  And  by  this  means  it 
seeks  to  give  a  new  reaction  to  the  over  experienced  emotions^ 

It  is  a  greater  triumph  for  these  new  seers  to  start  from  the 
commonplace.  For,  after  all,  it  is  a  simple  thing  to  create  a 
weird  effect  out  of  whole  cloth.  But  it  is  an  achievement  to 
unfold  the  weird  in  the  usual  and  so  uncover  new  excitement  in 
the  old.  And  further,  it  better  fulfills  their  vocation  of  keeping 
alive  intense  response  in  minds  deadened  by  their  own  intensity 
to  prick  this  response  with  the  ordinary  world  about,  for  the 
jaded  soul  is  much  too  weary  to  escape  that  omniscient  ordinary 
world. 

So  they  begin  with  the  simple  fact  and  distort  it  with  the 
ghastly  glare  of  their  overwrought  excitability.  And  their  poetry 
becomes,  not  a  revelation  of  the  real,  but  only  another  twist  of 

3S6 


LAKE  WINNIPESAUKEE  357 

delicate  neurasthenic  agony.  Or  they  begin  with  the  fundamental 
instinct  and  play  upon  it,  but  play  upon  it  not  to  sublimate  it, 
but  only  to  overstimulate  it.  Thus  they  are  the  sure  symptoms  of 
a  diseased  civilization,  instinct  perverts. 

This  careful  rhythmic  calculation  of  excitement  is  the  same 
manifestation  of  an  overwrought  emotional  life  that  appeared  at 
the  close  of  the  luxurious  Tokugawa  era  in  Japan,  in  the  prints  of 
Utamaro.  In  both  poetry  and  prints  there  is  the  same  straining 
for  novel  stimulation.  In  both  poetry  and  prints  there  is  the 
same  passion  for  new  passion.  And  in  both  poetry  and  prints 
the  method  is  the  same,  the  shrill  but  languid  speech  of  unused 
rhythms  and  unwonted  relations.  Anticipation,  startled  in 
transition,  lends  vividness  to  both. 

And  both  are  beautiful,  beautiful  with  the  rotting  beauty  of 
a  lovely  corpse.  They  are  like  the  luscious  pulpy  flowers  that 
flame  in  the  heavy  dankness  of  the  jungle,  sucking  the  last  life 
from  the  fertility-rotted  tree. 

Parasitic  beauty — and  in  their  wake  is  decay. 


LAKE  WINNIPESAUKEE* 

By  Alfred  Edmund  Trombly 

It  lies  among  the  hills  which  rise  and  stand 
A  bastion  to  the  storm  on  every  side. 
Its  shore  is  rocky  where  the  white-caps  ride 
While  sheltered  coves  are  edged  with  yellow  sand. 
Its  bays,  like  giant  fingers,  cut  the  land: 
Perhaps  some  old-world  god  or  Titan  tried 
To  mold  the  earth  before  its  crust  had  dried 
And  here  has  left  the  imprint  of  his  hand. 

That  wisp  of  smoke  slow-rising  in  still  air 
Above  the  hills  of  Governor's  Island  seems 
To  tell  that  priest  and  sponsor  of  "the  smile 
Of  the  great  spirit"  still  are  camping  there. 
And  Indian  huntsmen  troop  into  my  dreams 
Until  the  puffing  steamboat  rounds  the  isle! 

*Thc  Indians  called  the  lake,  Winnipesaukee,  which  means  the  smile  of  the  great  spirit. 


GREAT  MOiMENTS  IN  GREAT 
ACTING 

By  Arthur   Row 

IT  was  seeing  a  performance  of  Letty  that  awoke  me  to  the 
fact  that  an  entire  play  can  be  epitomized  in  a  single 
moment,  and  a  whole  character  crystalized  in  one  act. 
The  method  of  cumulative  effect  is  one  that  is  frequently 
used  by  great  artists.     They  may  indicate  subtly  many 
little   bits   of   character,    traces   of  individuality,    then 
suddenly  lunge   in  their  methods   into  one   luminous,   concrete 
moment  that  illustrates  the  whole  in  a  brilliant  lightning-like 
flare  of  dancing,  scintillating  light. 

It  was  my  misfortune  not  to  see  Carlotte  Neillson  as  Mrs. 
Elvsted  in  Hedda  Gabbler,  the  part  that  made  her  famous.  But 
her  performance  in  Letty  needed  no  past  reputation  to  back  it  up. 
As  truth  can  bear  its  own  weight,  so  this  performance  needs  no 
bush.  There  were  two  special  moments  in  this  piece  of  acting 
that  I  wish  to  recall.  The  cry — here  again  we  come  to  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  single  cry — the  cry,  I  say,  when  she  left  forever  her 
lover's  arms.  And  the  m.oment  when  he  told  her  directly  and 
yet  evasively,  that  he  was  through  with  her,  and  that  their  asso- 
ciation was  at  an  end.  This  cry  was  like  the  tearing  of  human 
flesh.  It  was  the  rawest  sound  I  ever  heard  emitted  from  a 
human  throat.  It  was  realism,  and  yet  truth,  and  as  such  was 
vividly  effective. 

In  this  scene  where  her  quandom  lover  tells  her  that  her  day 
is  over  with  him  at  least.  Miss  Neillson  achieved  what  Ellen 
Terry  would  call  "one  of  those  quiet  effects."  As  Letty,  she 
becomes  deathly  still,  an  ominous,  quiet,  and  death-like  calm 
crept  over  her  personality  as  she  slowly  realized  just  v/hat  this 
interview  portended — she  set  facing  the  audience,  while  her 
lover  was  profile — and  she  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  When  this 
look  of  bleak  despair  reached  a  climax  in  her  face,  it  resembled  a 
death  shadow,  the  cigarette  slipped  lifeless,  automatic  from  her 
hand,  and  as  it  rolled  to  her  feet,  she  "finished"  it  by  smashing  it 


3S8 


ARTHUR  ROW  359 

to  "smithereenes,"  with  a  pitiless,  relentless  gesture  under  her 
feet.  Here,  indeed,  was  action  suited  to  the  word — the  idea — 
the  intent — emotion  of  the  scene!  Nothing  in  painting  by  an 
action  could  have  been  more  complete,  conclusive,  pictorial! 

I  repeat,  I  shall  always  be  sorry  not  to  have  seen  her  won- 
derful Mrs.  Elvsted  in  Hedda  Gabbler — the  part  in  which  she  told 
me  once  she  had  packed  the  agony  of  a  twenty  years'  stage  ex- 
perience; in  which,  to  use  her  own  words,  "I  dug  a  knife  into  the 
heart  of  my  audience — and  turned  itf^^ 

How  many  theatre-goers  recall  seeing  Fanny  Davenport  in 
Gismonda,  the  moment  in  the  play  when  she  suddenly  sees  her 
child— her  one  ewe  lamb— topple  from  its  nurse's  arms  over  into 
the  lion's  den.  Frozen  horror,  anguish  of  every  maternal  import, 
all  the  primitive  emotions — so  effective  on  the  stage — were 
suddenly  uncovered,  thrillingly  as  though  the  lid  were  momen- 
tarily lifted  from  a  seething  caldron  of  cosmic  forces — her  body 
convulsed — the  very  cords  in  her  neck  knotted,  and  a  dry,  sparse 
note  in  her  voice  etched  the  extreme  height  of  her  anxiety  and 
emotion.  And  high,  and  above  all  in  effect,  was  the  cry,  again 
the  cry,  that  often  apprently  unconscious  cry  that  can  be  so 
telling  and  so  frequently  betrays  some  human  on  the  stage,  or  off 
it.  Gismonda's  cry  was  animal  in  its  primal  quality — this  hoarse, 
gutteral  lament  of  the  eternal  mother  when  its  young  is  im- 
perilled. 

Fanny  Davenport's  Gismonda  was  an  able,  graphic,  perfor- 
mance; picturesque,  of  an  alluring  charm,  and  technical  profi- 
ciency! All  this,  and  more,  but  its  value  and  quality  was  centered 
in  this  cry! 

There  is  one  American  actress  living,  and,  alas,  inactive  at 
the  moment,  who  reminds  me  of  Janauschek — I  mean  Mary 
Shaw!  She  is  of  the  same  substance  as  this  erstwhile  giant  of  the 
stage,  and  in  her  force  partakes  of  the  same  cosmic  range,  sug- 
gestive power,  profundity  and  extreme  telling  simplicity. 

The  Am^erican  public  and  the  American  stage  have  been 
guilty  of  not  a  few  crimes,  and  their  seeming  neglect  of  Mary  Shaw 
is  one  of  them.  Without  cavilling  one  iota  at  the  prominence  of 
our  stars  or  the  m.ore  than  generous  opportunities  lavished  upon 
their  scintilating  talents;  the  cold  fact  remains  that  the  partial 
obscurity,  the  incomplete  and  lessened  expression  of  a  craftsman, 
of  the  scope  and  range  of  a  Mary  Shaw,  is  an  artistic  national 
calamity,  that  has  found  frequent  expression  in  print  before  these 
meagre  lines  were  thought  of.     For  sheer  genius,  and  the  power 


36o  GREAT  MOMENTS  IN  GREAT  ACTING 

of  a  massive  mind,  Mary  Shaw  stands  nearly  alone  on  the  Ameri- 
can Stage  and  the  wonder  of  it  is,  she  almost  never  acts,  or,  more 
correctly  speaking  is  rarely  permitted  to. 

Sarah  Bernhardt  has  a  way  of  suddenly  leaving  the  shell  of 
a  character  by  the  wayside,  so  to  speak,  and  going  on  and  sug- 
gesting something  as  big  as  the  world  itself — of  symbolizing, 
creating  something  more  luminous  th^n  can  be  contained  in  a 
single  humean  character,  and  Mary  Shaw  did  this  unforgetably  in 
Ibsen's  Ghosts  when  she  acted  Mrs.  Alving.  This  performance 
has  long  been  acclaimed  for  its  pinnacle  of  greatness  among  stage 
creations;  but  there  was  a  moment  even  above  the  quiet  level  of 
its  grandeur.  I  refer  to  that  bit  of  the  play  where  Mrs.  Alvin  is 
closeted  alone  in  conversation  with  Pastor  Manders.  In  the 
midst  of  this  quiet  little  scene — what  Mrs.  Fiske  would  call  an 
"ominous  quiet,"  you  are  suddenly  recalled  to  the  fact  that  her 
son,  Oswald,  has  been  left  alone  in  the  adjoining  room  with  her 
serving  maid,  Regina;  the  slight  noise  of  the  overturning  of  a 
chair  is  what  brings  the  audience  to  its  feet  mentally,  so  to  speak. 
This  is  followed  by  the  slight  sound  of  a  scuffle  between  the  tvvo — 
instantly  the  face  and  figure  of  Mary  Shaw  assumed  the  aspect  of 
GreekTragedy — a  realization  of  an  Nemesis-like  tragedy  suddenly 
descending  upon  the  stricken  home,  the  look  that  suddenly 
appeared  on  Mary  Shaw's  face!  Her  eyes  revealed  the  depths  of 
a  thousand  crawling,  chasing  little  furies — the  hands  upraised  flat 
to  the  audience!  Ibsen  never  dreamed  of  anything  bigger  than 
this  effect — it  was  stupendous! 

Great  acting  of  the  highest  order  nearly  always  has  a  strong 
spiritual  element  in  it.  This  idea  was  borne  in  on  me  forcibly 
while  acting  during  the  recent  Shakespearean  Tercentenary  in 
Henry  VIII  with  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree.  In  the  Trial 
Scene,  I  had  to  sit,  in  my  role  of  Lord  Sands,  facing  Queen  Ka- 
theririe.  This  scene,  in  its  compact  and  concrete  agony  is  unsur- 
passed to  my  knovv'ledge  in  the  whole  range  of  the  drama.  The 
famous  torture  scene  in  Tosca  is  mere  child's  play  to  it;  for,  in  this 
trial  of  Katherine,  one  witnessed  the  breaking  of  a  spirit,  and  the 
actual  murder  of  a  soul — the  searing  of  a  stalwart  and  beautiful 
heart.  If  any  one  ever  died  of  a  broken  heart  it  was  Katherine 
of  Aragón  of  Shakespearean  history.  When  I  saw  Ellen  Terry 
in  this  scene,  she  impressed  me  greatly,  but  it  was  not  until  I  saw 
Miss  Matthison  play  it  that  I  realized  the  values,  as  you  might 
say,  that  are  contained  in  this  tremendous  bit  of  dramatic  history. 
Ellen  Terry  was  plaintive,  majestic,  poetical,  exquisite  always, 


ARTHUR  ROW  361 

but — there  was  no  fight  to  her  as  at  least  one  critic  of  the  time 
pointed  out,  and  though  it  is  history  that  Katherine  was  broken, 
the  fact  also  remains  that  she  fought,  and  fought  valiantly;  hers 
was  distinctly  not  a  willing  death. 

Ellen  Terry's  Katherine  partook  too  much  of  Oscar  Wilde's 
description  of  her  Queen  Henrietta  Maria  in  Charles  /  "a  wan 
lily,   too   drenched   with   rain." 

Katherine's  character  is  largely  composed  of  the  epic  and 
heroic,  and  this  sterner  quality,  the  ethereal,  Ellen  Terry,  was 
quite  powerless  to  impart.  It  is  true,  that  the  purely  imaginative 
beauty  of  her  acting  in  the  death  scene  was  unrivalled  but,  of 
course,  it  was  just  this  kind  of  gossamer  acting  Ellen  Terry  never 
had  an  equal  or  superior.  But  the  Katherine  of  our  latest  revival, 
Edith  W^ynne  Matthison,  boasted  quite  another  quality — a 
quality  rare  indeed,  and  so  necessary  to  the  battle  of  the  scene. 
(I  use  the  word  battle,  because  we  are  told  that  drama  means 
conflict.)  Well,  in  this  particular  conflict,  Edith  Wynne  Matthi- 
son fairly  blazed,  and  she  blazed  with  the  white  heat  of  a  purely 
spiritual  righteous  fervor.  Such  quiet,  deadly  anger,  I  never 
have  seen  at  any  time  on  the  stage  before  or  since.  And  it  was 
exactly  the  quality  needed  for  the  scene,  and  the  quality,  alas, 
that  you  cannot  buy,  or  order,  or  command  in  an  actress.  It 
either  is — or  is  not — m.ore  often,  is  not.  All  that  can  be  implied 
in  outraged  womanhood  was  there — of  traduced  wifely  dignity 
and  rights,  of  ethical  and  spiritual  integrity. 

The  play — the  convulsive  workings  of  her  hands — the  serene, 
livid  scorn  of  her  face — the  morale  she  infused  into  her  com- 
position of  the  scene,  was  of  immense  value,  and  hugely  effective. 
The  conviction  and  finality  of  her  sweeping  exit  were  regally 
classic  in  effect  and  appeal. 

It  was  when  I  saw  Katherine  Grey  in  The  Reckoning  that  I 
witnessed  in  one  sense  quite  the  m.ost  remarkable  bit  of  acting 
I  had  ever  seen  injected  into  a  single  scene.  The  actor  was 
Albert  Bruning,  and  the  role  was  that  of  the  husband  of  the  be- 
trayed wife,  this  sam.e  wife  that  caused  all  the  misery  in  this 
plaintive,  memorable  little  play. 

Bruning  was  not,  all  told,  on  the  stage  more  than  ten  minutes, 
may  be  not  five;  yet  in  this  incredibly  short  space  of  time  he 
created  an  effect  more  vivid  than  any  of  the  actors  in  a  per- 
formance notable  for  extraordinary  moments.  This  bit  of  acting 
is  the  most  perfect  example  I  have  yet  seen  on  the  American 
dramatic  stage,  of  how  much  can  be  done  with  how  little — and  is 


302  GREAT  MOMENTS  IN  GREAT  ACTING 

this  after  all  not  the  real  acid  test  of  the  artist?  As  the  Irish  be- 
come the  best  farmers  because  they  have  the  worst  soil,  so  the 
really  creative  artist  will  emerge  triumphantly  from  what  has 
appeared  to  be  a  stupid  and  hopeless  opportunity.  The  actors 
who  becom^e  famous  through  a  single  bit  of  acting  like  this,  need- 
less to  say  are  rare — for  the  quality  of  an  artist  is  as  easily  detected 
in  a  few  inches  of  their  artistic  fabric  as  in  the  whole  of  the 
tapestry. 

It  was  as  I  recall,  in  The  Reckoning  that  I  first  heard  of 
Albert  Bruning,  now  happily  considered  an  actor  of  the  first  rank 
in  America.  This  was  also,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  the  first  time 
Nevi^  York  had  acclaimed  him  as  an  unusual  actor. 

To  be  classed  as  unusual,  and  this  in  New  York  is  to  be 
made — just  as  the  truth  of  the  poignant  tragedy  that  no  matter 
how  good  an  actor  m^ay  be  outside  New  York,  signifies  really 
nothing  to  the  artistic  status  of  the  poor  player,  for  as  London  is 
the  artistic  criterion  of  the  English  speaking  world,  so  is  New 
York  for  the  whole  of  America. 

Bruning's  achievement  in  The  Reckoning  was  that  miracle  in 
the  theater — a  song  without  words  again,  right  here  comes  the 
crucial  test  of  the  actor  by  which  I  mean  when  he  is  successful  in 
conveying — putting  over,  to  use  the  theatrical  parlance — some 
big  eííect  in  the  theater — without  any  words  to  help  him  in  the 
undertaking.  What  Albert  Bruning  revealed  to  our  astonished 
eyes  was  nothing  less  than  a  tide  of  emotion,  seen  first  at  its  rise, 
then  gathering  in  force  and  surge  until  its  catalopsial  break — nor 
was  this  the  end,  for  the  spectator  distinctly  saw  the  check  of  the 
m.an  on  his  emotion,  the  pause  and  gradual  almost  imperceptible 
receding  of  a  lava-Hke  force.  And  what's  Mr.  Belasco  would  call 
the  "excuse"  for  all  this.'' — Hatred  of  an  abysmal  nature — re- 
venge—anger of  a  white  heat- — righteous  indignation  to  the  m.an 
who  had  ruined  his  home  and  life — all  these  emotions  toppled 
like  a  cataract,  for  the  life  of  expression  in  the  eyes,  lips,  the 
whole  visage  of  the  actor,  all  this  please  remember  in  the  course 
of  about  three  unforgetable  minutes,  and  in  a  play  that  had 
plenty  of  splendid  moments  of  acting. 

The  business  of  this  tiny  scene  was  sparse  indeed.  Bruning 
as  the  husband  was  announced,  entered,  bowed  to  the  betrayer 
of  his  home,  m.ade  and  confirmed  the  rendezvous  for  the  inevi- 
table duel,  reached  for  his  hat,  cane  and  gloves  on  the  table 
preparatory  to  his  departure,  when  suddenly  occurred  this  moment 
of  acting  which  could  only  be  manipulated  and  interpolated  into 


ARTHUR  ROW  363 

the  scene  by  a  master  mind  and  a  supreme  artist.  Replacing  his 
hat,  Bruning  proceeded  to  just  look  at  his  assailant.  This  look 
registered  enmity  and  hatred,  black,  vengeful  as  I  have  never  seen 
before  or  since.  It  had  almost  a  physical  aspect.  It  seemed  to 
rise  from  his  boots— overflow  in  his  eyes,  and  dart  in  leaping, 
piercing,  burning  tongues  of  flames  from  their  sockets — when  the 
interruption  of  emotion  had  completely  subsided  leaving  the  face 
immobile  and  with  a  dreadful  stillness  and  quiet,  Bruning  with 
only  the  aspect  of  the  well  bred  man  of  the  world  bowed  again, 
and  quitted  the  room  with  the  utmost  convention.  Here  indeed 
was  pantomime  that  required  neither  words  nor  time. 


THE  LAST  CRUSADE 

By  Richard  Butler  Glaenzer 

Clash,  cymbals,  clash! 
Blare,  trumpets,  blare! 
Jerusalem  the  Fair 
Is  delivered;  the  Macaire 
Of  the  North  has  been  found 
Guilty  by  Heaven's  hound: 
The  drums  of  Jehovah  crash 
With  hallelujahs  on  holy  ground. 

Ring  out,  eternal  bells! 
Broken  are  the  fetters  of  Zedekiah, 
Ended  the  dirges  of  Jeremiah: 
Lo,  the  hosts  of  the  Messiah 
Have  confounded  the  infidels. 

Joyously,  timbrels!     Antiochus 
And  his  kind  shall  enslave  no  more: 
The  day  of  the  ruthless  and  tyrannous 
Shall  vanish  like  Baal  and  the  Minotaur: 
The  hammering  mettle  of  the  Maccabees 
Has  conquered:  from  far  overseas 
Come  men  of  God  to  succor  and  restore. 


364  THE   LAST   CRUSADE 

Make  music,  psaltery  and  harp! 

The  walls  leveled  by  Titus  and  his  legions 

Shall  rise  a  gentle  lilied  counterscarp: 

The  shepherd  and  his  sheep  shall  roam  mild  regions 

Where  faith  will  need  no  martyred  Polycarp. 

Triumphantly,  deep  viol,  sackbut,  pipe! 
Attune  to  victory  the  Hep!  hep!  hep! 
Of  this  crusade's  uncompromising  step! 
Sweeten,  O  flute,  the  long  embittered  air! 
Jerusalem,  Jerusalem  the  Fair 

Is  now  delivered — not  from  Heraclius  to  Chosroes 

Nor,  when  won  back  for  Christ  again, 

To  Caliph  Omar  and  the  Saracen; 

Not  as  by  Godfrey's  feudal  stripe 

Slyly  unsteeled  by  veiled  sultanic  ease, 

Nor  as  by  mystic  Frederick's  type 

Scented  and  fitful  as  Palermo's  breeze. 

Nay,  City  of  Peace,  in  no  such  hands  as  these 

Lies  your  new  destiny:  the  hour  is  ripe 

For  you  to  stand  as  stable  as  His  Cross 

But  free  from  thieves  and  soldiers'  pitch-and-toss, 

Sun  to  the  shadow  of  the  Forsaken's  loss! 


ST.  GEORGE  O'   DREAMS 

By  Richard  Butler  Glaenzer 

I  am  not  sure  just  why  I  love  it  so, 

Nor  it  is  likely  I  shall  ever  know 

The  secret  of  its  haunting  hold  since  first 

I  spied  it  from  the  Causeway  years  ago 

Under  a  perfect  rainbow  reaching  down 

As  if  to  hug  the  little  snow-white  town: 

A  moment's  glimpse  and  yet  a  memory  nursed 

Through  many  a  fevered  day  of  many  a  year, 

Fresh  as  if  aided  by  som.e  costly  souvenir. 

To  risk  old  magic,  Protean  as  the  Spain 

Of  airy  castles,  is  so  often  vain, 

I  hardly  dared  reventure;  still,  I  dared. 

Only  to  fall  in  love  over  again 

And  cling  closely  as  though  it  might  be  gone 

Were  I  to  turn  my  back  from  dusk  till  dawn. 

I  wonder  was  there  ever  a  man  who  cared 

So  deeply  for  it  with  so  little  cause, 

Faithful  in  spite  of  snubs  and  smirks  and  ingrained  flaws. 

For  flaws  it  has,  though  in  my  sight  its  sun 

Can  melt  away  or  gild  'most  every  one 

Before  the  second  morning  coach  is  off 

Or  windows  rattle  from  the  midday  gun: 

And  those  that  linger  on  through  afternoon 

Are  pricked  by  stars  or  flooded  by  the  moon. 

Oh,  it  has  dark  defects  for  such  as  scoff; 

But  who  with  eyes  for  beauty  looks  for  fault 

Between  a  haven  of  beryl  and  wide  heavens  of  smalt. 

And  when  the  west  wind  carries  the  perfume 
Of  lilies  into  every  street  and  room. 
And  pomegranates  blaze  out  with  saffron  flames, 
And  pride-of-Indias  foam  with  lilac  bloom, 


36s 


366  ST.  GEORGE  O'DREAMS 

I  could  outglow,  outpipe,  the  cardinal, 

Proud  as  if  I,  yes,  I,  had  done  it  all; 

Had  made  the  flowers,  the  trees,  thought  out  their  names 

Tamarisk,  cedar,  poinciana,  palm. 

Crisp  as  the  winter's  breeze  or  soft  as  summer's  calm. 

I  love  the  changing  of  St.  Peter's  bell. 
Each  crooked  alley  and  the  wholesome  smell 
Of  whitewash  everywhere  on  walls,  roofs,  eaves 
And  terraced  chimneys  built  of  coral  shell 
Mottled  with  moss;  the  blinds  of  crackled  brown 
Or  faded  bottle-green — oh,  all  the  town; 
Love  it  with  misting  eyes  as  one  who  leaves 
His  land  of  dreams  to  fight,  perhaps  to  die. 
And  lose  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  and  rainbowed 
sky! 


THANKS  TO  A  FRUIT-SHOP 

By  Richard  Butler  Glaenzer 

Now  I  can  snap  my  fingers  at  defeat! 
Whisked  by  the  presto  of  an  avocado, 
I  am  once  more  at  peace  in  El  Dorado 
Where  winter  warms  and  dreamers  do  not  meet 
Reproachful  eyes;  where  war  is  obsolete. 

Up  the  rich  valley,  where  a  stream  I  know 
Dances  with  crystal  castanets  fandangoes 
That  shake  the  stout  duenna-formal  mangoes 
Until  their  broad  glossy  mantillas  glow 
With  saffron  powder,  dancing  myself  I  go! 

Through  cocoa-groves  so  wisely  mulched  and  thinned 
Each  slender  tree-trunk  gleams  an  endless  cluster 
Of  perfect  pods  of  red  and  orange  luster; 
Through  lanes  of  limes  as  kindly  disciplined; 
Past  calabash  and  palm  and  tamarind. 


RICHARD  BUTLER  GLAENZER  367 

Up  the  gay  river!     Watch  the  native  whet 

His  cutlass  on  a  stone,  as  gaily  singing 

Until  a  bright-turbanned  girl  comes,  svelte  hips  swinging, 

Basket  worn  like  a  crown.     Ah,  Nicolette, 

How  much  you  could  have  learned  from  this  coquette! 

A  double  rainbow  jewels  the  valley's  head 
Where  the  twin  rock-frayed  stoles  of  falls  unravel, 
Tangle,  untangle,  brush,  unite,  then  travel 
Lost  in  each  other's  beauty,  for  they  spread 
One  seamless  cover  on  the  stony  bed. 

The  last  shy  humming-bird!     Now  there  remain 
Only  the  mountain-whistlers,  fellow- keepers 
With  the  loud  anvil-crickets  of  the  creepers 
Whose  iron  will  has  made  the  bush  a  chain 
Buckler  against  earthquake  and  wind  and  rain. 

Gently  rises  the  trail  edged  with  bamboo 
Like  sheaves  of  giant  wheat  and  wild  bananas 
Crisp  as  the  still  air  stirred  by  long  lianas 
Which  dangle  from  the  beetling  cliíís;  a  few 
Exquisite  tree-ferns  filigree  the  view. 

Their  fronds  are  graceful  wings  whose  grammarye 
Makes  emerald  birds  of  bread-fruit  and  castilloa 
And  of  myself  an  eagle-high  Balboa 
Gazing  on  a  new  world  where  life  is  free — 
No!     There  sounds  a  driver's  whiplike  Geel 

Cushioned  against  the  moss,  I  let  him  pass. 
Him  and  his  tiny  donkeys  laden  with  panniers. 
Lilies  balancing  roses;  eddoes,  tanniers; 
Nutmegs,  vanilla;  cane,  lush  Guinea-grass: 
Dilemmas  for  Buridan  as  well  as  his  ass. 

Alone  again  without  that  loneliness 
One  feels  in  crowded  cities:  wooded  ranges 
Brother  my  spirit  and  the  subtle  changes 
Of  color  wrought  when  sun  and  cloud  caress 
Thrill  me  beyond  art's  mightiest  success. 


368  THANKS  TO  A  FRUIT-SHOP 

This  golden  air  would  cheapen  any  frame; 
This  sea  calls  for  a  merman's  pearl-toned  pallette. 
These  mountains  for  a  cyclopean  mallet 
To  do  them  pygmy  justice:  lamps  are  tame 
Held  in  the  unbound  sunlight's  laughing  flame. 

Art  is  of  man  and  man  is  much  too  small 

To  grasp  immensities,  too  transitory 

To  comprehend  the  deep,  inherent  glory 

Of  this  old  earth:  though  proud,  his  talents  crawl; 

His  godlike  mantle  is  a  Paisley  shawl. 

Art,  life — life  of  the  street,  life  of  the  trench — 
What  empty  terms  they  seem  here  close  to  Heaven, 
Plenty,  peace  and  air  pure  enough  to  leaven 
To  comradeship  even  the  Germans  and  French. 
There  is  no  thirst  such  splendors  should  not  quench ' 


THE  BURDEN  OF  BABYLON* 

By  William  Force  Stead 

We  take  the  liberty  cf  quoting  from  Mr.  Stead's  letter: 

"The  Burden  of  Babylon  is  not  meant  to  be  dramatic,  of  course:  nothing  happens 
in  an  outward  and  visible  way;  but  'It  is  in  the  soul  that  things  happen,'  and  this  is  meant 
as  a  picture  (in  some  wise)  of  the  soul  of  an  absolute  monarch,  with  the  immensely  exag- 
gerated ego  which  is  bred  of  unqualified  power,  flattery,  and  the  consequent  feeling  of 
being  peculiarly  favoured  by  the  gods  whether  Bel  or  Jehovah.  'It  is  in  the  soul  that 
things  happen,'  and  given  such  a  soul — drunken  with  power  and  warped  by  a  sense  of 
divine  right — and  there  flows  from  it  all  the  misery  and  blood  shed  which  desolated 
Assyria  and  Babylon  of  old, — (or  in  the  case  of  the  German  Emperor),  which  is  desolating 
Europe  and  the  world  today. 

"The  last  lyrical  section  is  meant  as  a  reference  to  man's  sense  of  right  which  is  God's 
sword  and  the  means  of  overthrowing  such  a  menace  to  the  world — it  is  a  reference  to 
America's  entry  into  the  war.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  first  three  lyrical 
portions  are  more  or  less  adaptations  from  Isaiah's  tremendous  prophecies  over  Babylon. 

Scene:  An  upper  chamber  in  the  palace  of  the  King  of  Babylon. 
Dusk  on  a  hot  summer^ s  evening.  From  time  to  time  there  rises 
vaguely  the  voice  of  some  one  singing  far  of  beyond  the  palace  gardens. 
The  King  is  gazing  out  of  an  open  window. 

The  King  of  Babylon — 

Since  I  am  Babylon,  I  am  the  world; 
The  windy  heavens  and  the  rainy  skies 
Attend  the  earth  in  humble  servitude: 
And  I  am  Babylon,  I  am  the  world: 
The  heavens  and  their  powers  attend  on  me. 

The  Voice  of  One  Crying  in  the  Night — 

Babylon.,  the  glory  of  the  Kingdoms., 

And  the  Chaldee^s  excellency, 
Is  become  as  Sodom  ajid  Gomorrah^ 

Whom  God  overthrew  by  the  sea. 

The  King — 

Who  is  that  fellow  singing  by  the  River. ^ 
I  think  I  heard  him  lift  his  voice  in  praise 
Of  Babylon:  som.e  minstrel  seeking  hire: 
I  need  him  not  to  tell  me  who  I  am: 
For  I  am  Baladan  of  Babylon. 

*Copyright  1918  by  William  Force  Stead. 

369 


370        THE  BURDEN  OF  BABYLON 

The  splendour  of  my  sceptre,  crown,  and  throne, 

And  all  the  awe  that  fills  my  royal  halls, 

The  pomp  that  heralds  me,  the  shout  that  follows, 

Are  flying  shadows  and  reflections  only 

From  the  wide  dazzlings  of  myself,  the  King. 

This  I  conceive;  and  yet  we  kings  have  labour 

To  apprehend  ourselves  imperially. 

And  see  the  blaze  and  lightnings  of  our  Person: 

The  thought  of  their  own  sovereignty  amazes 

The  princelings  even,  and  the  lesser  kings: 

But  I  am  Baladan  of  Babylon. 

The  Voice  in  the  Night — 

Never  again  inhabited, 

Babylon,  0  Babylo7i! 
Even  the  wandering  Arabian 

From  thy  weary  waste  is  gone. 
Neither  shall  the  shepherd  tend  his  fold  there. 

Nor  any  green  herb  be  grown: 
It  Cometh  in  the  night-time  suddenly, 

And  Babylon  is  overthrown. 

The  King — 

Pale  from  the  east  the  stars  arise,  and  climb, 

And  then  grow  bright,  beholding  Babylon: 

They  would  delay,  but  may  not;  so  they  pass, 

And  fade  and  fall,  bereft  of  Babylon. 

Quick  from  the  Median  line  the  sun  comes  up, 

For  he  expects  to  see  my  Palaces; 

And  the  moon  lingers,  even  on  the  wane. 

Mine  ancient  dynasty,  as  yon  great  river, 

Euphrates,  with  his  fountains  in  far  hills_. 

Arose  in  the  blue  morning  of  the  years; 

And  as  yon  river  flows  on  into  time. 

Unalterable  in  majesty,  my  line 

Survives  in  domination  down  the  years. 

I  know,  but  am  concerned  not,  that  somxC  people 

At  the  pale  limits  of  the  world,  abide 

As  yet  beyond  the  circle  of  my  sway; 

The  miserable  sons  of  meagre  soil. 

That  needs  much  tillage  ere  the  yield  be  good 

I  only  wait  until  they  ripen  more, 


WILLIAM  FORCE  STEAD  371 

And  fatten  toward  my  final  harvesting: 
When  I  am  ready,  I  will  reap  them  in. 
For  it  is  written  in  the  stars,  and  read 
Of  all  my  Wise  Men  and  astrologers, 
That  I,  and  my  great  line  of  Babylon, 
Shall  rule  the  world,  and  only  find  a  bound 
Where  the  horizon's  bounds  are  set;  an  end 
When  the  world  ends:  so  shall  all  other  lands, 
All  nations,  and  all  peoples,  and  all  tongues, 
Become  a  fable  told  of  olden  times. 
Deemed  of  our  sons  a  thing  incredulous. 

The  Voice  in  the  Night — 

Woeful  are  thy  desolate  palaces^ 

Where  dole  Jul  creatures  cry, 
And  wild  beasts  out  of  the  islands 

In  thy  fallen  chambers  cry. 
Where  now  are  the  viol  and  the  tabret? 

But  owls  hoot  in  moonlight: 
And  over  the  ruins  of  Babylon 

The  satyr  leaps  by  night. 

The  King — 

Yon  voice,  that  seems  to  hum  my  Kingdom's  glory, 

Fails  in  the  vast  immensity  of  night. 

As  fails  all  earthly  praise  of  him  who  hears 

The  ceaseless  acclamation  of  the  stars. 

What  needs  there  more? — -the  apple  of  the  world, 

Grov/n  ripe  and  juicy,  rolls  into  my  lap, 

And  all  the  gods  of  Babylon,  well  pleased 

With  blood  of  bulls  and  fume  of  fragrant  things, 

Even  while  I  take  mine  ease,  attend  on  me: 

The  figs  do  ripen,  the  olive,  and  the  vine. 

And  in  the  plains  climb  the  big  sycamores; 

My  camels,  and  my  laden  dromedaries, 

Move  in  from  eastward,  bearing  odorous  gums; 

And  the  Zidonians  hew  me  cedar  beams. 

Even  tall  cedars  out  of  Lebanon; 

Euphrates  floats  his  treasured  freightage  down. 

And  all  great  Babylon  is  filled  with  spoil. 

Wherefore,  upon  the  summit  of  the  world, 

The  utmost  apex  of  this  throned  realm, 


372        THE  BURDEN  OF  BABYLON 

I  stand,  as  stands  the  driving  charioteer, 

And  steer  my  course  right  onward  toward  the  stars: 

Mean-fated  men  my  horses  trample  under, 

And  my  wine-bins  have  drained  the  blood  of  mothers, 

And  smoothly  my  wheels  run  upon  the  necks 

Of  babes  and  sucklings, — while  Lhold  my  way, 

Serene,  supreme,  secure  in  destiny, 

Because  the  gods  perceive  mine  excellence, 

And  entertain  for  mine  Imperial  Person 

Peculiar  favours     ...     I  am  Babylon, 

Exceeding  precious  in  the  High  One's  eyes. 

The  Voice  in  the  Night — 

Babylon  is  fallen^  is  fallen! 

And  never  shall  h'e  known  again: 
Drunken  with  the  blood  of  my  Beloved, 

And  trampling  on  the  sons  of  men. 
But  God  is  awake  and  aware  of  thee, 

And  sharply  shines  His  sword, 
Where  over  the  earth  spring  suddenly 

The  hidden  hosts  of  the  Lord: 
Armies  of  right  and  of  righteousness. 

Huge  hosts,  unseen,  unknown: 
And  thy  pomp,  and  thy  revellings,  and  glory. ^ 

Where  the  wind  goes,  they  are  gone. 


OUR  LADY  OF  WISTFULNESS 

By  William  Force  Stead 

I 

At  twilight  in  the  starlight,  Wistful  One, 

I  heard  thy  piping,  saw  thee  in  the  cool 

Of  evening,  by  a  blue  and  placid  pool 

Of  pallid-coloured  water,  whereupon 

Some  early  stars  were  lying: 

Behind  thee,  olive  and  tall  cypress  trees 

O'er-laid  the  rosy  end  of  day's  down-dying; 

While  in  low  tones  and  plaining  minor  keys 

Thou  madest  thine  illusive  melodies. 

And  alway  calledst,  "Hither,  come  hither. " 

I  followed,  sighing,  "Whither, 

0  whither  wilt  thou  lead  me.  Wistful  One?" 

II 

Unwearied  seeker  after  Paradise, 

0  Pilgrim  with  all  visions  in  thine  eyes, 
Already  art  thou  gone? 

1  hear  thee,  yet  do  hardly  see; 

Stay  yet  awhile,  wilt  thou  not  wait  for  me, 

0  Wistful  One? 

Thou  rovest  now  some  heavy-wooded  steep 

On  yonder  darkling  Apennines; 

The  shepherds  when  thou  comest  leave  their  sheep, 

And  thou  disturbest  the  deep-dreaming  pines: 

Sea-wearied  mariners,  no  sooner  home. 

Than  hearing  thee,  lie  wakeful  half  the  night. 

Then  kiss  their  brides,  and  quickly  in  moonlight 

Unfurl  their  sails,  and  on  again  they  roam. 

Ill 

O  thou  that  fallest  with  soft-falling  rains, 
Thou  sigh  that  follow'st  the  departing  sun, 
How  many  faces  to  their  window  panes 
Thou  drawest,  Wistful  One: 

^Copyright  1918  by  William  Force  Stead 

373 


374  OUR  LADY  OF  WISTFULNESS 

Thou  callest  up  light-sleeping  Princesses, 

0  midnight  mover  among  palace  trees, 
And  wakener  of  birds  in  coverts  green; 
And  weaving  maidens  in  their  tower-room, 

Turn  when  they  hear  thee,  leave  the  humming  Iccm, 
And  from  their  casements,  lost  in  wonder,  lean 

IV 

Thou  worshipper  of  clouds  in  distant  skies, 

1  see  thee  when  the  moon  begins  to  dawn, 
Down  the  green  sweep  of  some  long  stately  lawn, 
With  arms  uplift,  and  hope-entranced  eyes; 

Or  where  the  road,  far-travelling,  vanishes 
In  curving  under  low-embower'd  trees. 
One  moment,  and  no  more, 
Thy  fingers  beckon,  and  thine  eyes  implore. 

V 
Unhappy  here,  thou  wouldst  be  journeying  far 
Over  the  blue  verge  of  the  watery  plain. 
Beyond  the  sun's,  beyond  the  moon's  domain; 

0  alien,  from  the  land  where  angels  are, 

Here  hast  thou  strayed,  and  lost  thy  way,  and  fain 

Wouldst  find  thine  own  fair  fields  again: 

Thou  roam^est  seeking  them,  and  thy  heart  sings 

Of  happier  times,  the  dearly-treasured  themes; 

And  all  more  beauteous,  yea,  all  lovelier  things. 

Are  wakings  from  thy  songs,  thy  songs  and  dreams: 

None  other  than  thy  voice  the  Poet  inspires, 

When  on  the  midnight  wind  sing  spirit-choirs, 

In    chiming    words,    keyed-low,    blent    tones    of    Fancy's 

wreathing; 
'Tis  by  thy  breathing 
The  violin  moans  her  infinite  desires; 
Cathedrals,  where  tall  pillars  rise  and  rise. 
Are  builded  of  thy  longing  for  lost  Paradise. 

VI 

1  saw  thy  maidens  round  thee,  circle-wise. 
Even  in  a  place  apart,  an  hallow'd  hill, 

At  twilight,  when  the  air  was  blue  and  still. 
Their  oval  faces  lifted  in  surmise, 


WILLIAM  FORCE  STEAD  375 

Were  silver-lighten'd  out  of  starry  skies, 

And  there  was  starlight  in  their  wakeful  eyes: 

The  while  with  finely-taper'd  fingers 

They  woke  the  hidden  note  that  lingers 

Deep  in  the  lute's  heart  and  mute  cithern  strings. 

The  song  of  wished,  dim-discerned  things, 

That  always  on  the  listless  strings 

Lingers,  and  only  waits  and  stays 

Till  it  may  sail  on  villanelle  and  spiral  virelays 

VII 

They  gave  the  lorn  note  wings. 

What  time  they  touch'd  the  trembling  strings 

Singing  of  Avalon,  the  haunted  isle. 

Far  over-sea,  delectable,  so  long  awhile 

Sought  on  horizons  ever  vanishing. 

In  voices  piercing  sweet  I  heard  them  sing, 

Until  the  far  sea-island  floated,  lo, 

Full  near,  with  opal  gates,  and  towers  aglow 

In  gems  of  em.erald  and  warm  ruby  hues, 

Soft-lighted,  under  evening's  deep'ning  blues: 

So  near,  and  yet  I  could  but  know, 

I  could  but  hear,  mid  their  heart-piercing  strain, 

That  all  the  sweet  was  only  born  of  pain. 

Seeing  that  no  man  shall  that  isle  attain; 

Dream,  dream,  aye,  all  a  dream,  and  are  not  dreams  but 


vam : 


Yet  out  of  dusty  cities,  parching  lands, 

I  saw  m.en  lifting  up  imploring  hands 

For  on  them,  too,  the  gracious  vision  shone; 

And  they  w^ere  moved,  and  ill-satisfied, 

The  while  they  heard  thee,  and  their  hearts  out-cried, 

"0  thither,  bring  us  thither.  Wistful  One." 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


Dr.  Morton  Prince  has  accom- 
plished a  feat  that  makes  Jean 
Valjean's  tour  of  the  sewers  of 
Paris  pale  into  insignificance.  He 
has  explored  the  depths  of  Prus- 
sian psychology.  No  one  who 
had  not  had  experience  in  probing 
the  ignominies  of  the  subconscious 
and  the  diseases  of  submerged 
desires  could  have  been  cour- 
ageous enough  to  undertake  the 
task.  We  must  not  forget,  how- 
ever, that  in  191 5  he  undertook 
the  Augean  task  of  examining 
the  mind  of  the  Kaiser.  In  Dr. 
Prince's  latest  book,  The  Creed  of 
Deutichtum  (Badger),  he  has  shown 
the  same  lucid  treatment  of  a 
difficult  subject,  as  characterized 
The  Psychology  of  the  Kaiser, 
which,  by  the  way,  is  included  in 
the  present  volume. 

In  the  schoolroom — if  my  mem- 
ory does  not  fail  me — a  pupil's 
grasp  of  a  subject  was  gauged  by 
his  ability  to  put  it  in  his  own 
words.  Those  who  were  a  little 
hazy  as  to  the  meaning  of  the 
author,  played  it  safe  and  stuck 
to  the  phraseology  of  textbook. 
When  I  find  a  psychologist  who 
uses  human  language,  I  know  I 
have  found  a  master.  This  ought 
to  encourage  Dr.  Prince;  since,  of 
course,  his  reputation  as  a  psy- 
chologist is  in  so  much  need  of 
eulogy  from  review  columns. 

Do  I  hear  some  one  exclaiming 
that  Deulschtum  hardly  can  be 
called  human  language,  being  Ger- 
man? After  all,  we  must  not  for- 
get that  Goethe  used  it,  unless  we 
follow  the  German  line  of  reason- 
ing anent  Shakespeare,  and  agree 
that  Goethe  was  English  anyway. 


For  those  who  consider  it  un- 
patriotic to  remember  their  Ger- 
man, let  me  explain  that  Deuts- 
chtum  means  the  state  of  mind  of 
Germany.  Adequate  ventilation 
is  now  in  order. 

Dr.  Prince  gives  a  very  enlight- 
ening account  of  Prussian  mili- 
tarism, theoretical  and  practical. 
He  compares  the  American  and 
the  German  viewpoints,  and  dis- 
cusses the  American  conscience 
during  1914-1915.  He  does  not 
shrink  from  giving  examples  of 
German  horrors;  for  as  a  nation 
thinks,  so  is  she. 

I  was  most  interested  in  the 
last  chapter,  A  World  Conscious- 
ness and  Future  Peace.  Just  as  an 
individual's  subconscious  self  is 
the  product  of  all  his  life,  so  a 
nation  develops  a  subconscious 
self.  Into  that  personality  go  all 
its  desires,  its  fears,  its  hatreds, 
and  its  aspirations.  The  real 
ruler  of  any  nation  is  this  subcon- 
scious mind  or  national  conscious- 
ness. But  over  and  above  this  is 
the  world  consciousness  which  we 
can  reach  by  deep  reverie.  Psy- 
chology permits  us  to  look  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  a  noble 
world  consciousness  shall  manage 
the  affairs  of  men. 

I  may  be  .wrong — although  of 
course  such  a  supposition  is  highly 
improbable  to  say  the  least — but 
I  believe  there  is  no  doubt  of  the 
hardiness  of  a  love  of  liberty 
which  springs  up  even  in  German 
soil.  Such  rare  spirits  receive 
sympathetic  treatment  from  War- 
ren Washburn  Florer,  who  is 
already  familiar  to  readers  of  Poet 

376 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


377 


Lore.  His  new  book  is  Gerynan 
Liberty  Authors  (Badger's  Studies 
in  Literature).  He  considers  those 
men  who  wrote  against  oppression. 

Schiller  was  a  believer  in  the 
common  sense  of  the  people.  He 
recognized  that  the  man  whose 
very  breath  is  freedom  cannot  live 
without  liberty,  and  that  the  di- 
vinity of  humanity  will  maintain 
itself. 

No  poet  has  recorded  the  simple 
faith  of  the  people  in  more  beauti- 
ful language  than  has  Peter  Roseg- 
ger  in  his  wonderful  novel,  /.  N. 
R,  /. 

Sundermann  worked  for  dignity, 
self-possession,   and  individuality. 

It  remained  for  Max  Kretzer 
to  catch  the  melody  of  the  beati- 
tudes, quietly  hummed  by  the 
down-trodden  in  the  industrial 
city,  Berlin. 

In  Jorn  Uhl,  Frenssen  attacks 
the  pastors  in  the  pulpit  who  do 
not  know  th.-  life  and  needs  of  the 
hearers. 

It  is  a  strange  irony  that  the 
co.venant  of  the  German  novelists 
considered  in  this  volume  has  been 
this:  "Love  is  the  spirit  of  human- 
ity; and  service,  its  law.  To  dwell 
together  in  peace,  to  seek  the 
truth  in  love,  and  to  help  one 
another." 

It  is  quite  certain  from  the 
evidence  of  the  case  that  Oedipus 
never  was  familiar  with  those 
wonderful  precepts  of  the  Church 
of  England,  beginning  with  "a 
man  may  not  marry  his  grand- 
mother" and  containing  a  com- 
plot'- list  of  female  relatives  equally 
forbidden  and  almost  equally  un- 
desirable. You  would  know  that 
the  man  who  had  the  courage  to 
marry  a  woman  literally  old 
enough  to  be  his  mother,  would 
find  the  solving  of  the  sphinx's 
riddle  a  mere  trifle.    Greek  cosmet- 


ics must  have  been  really  wonder- 
ful if  a  woman  Jocasta's  age  could 
have  no  difficulty  in  hooking  a 
conquering    hero    like    Oedipus. 

The  really  pathetic  part  of  the 
story  seems  to  be  that  Oedipus 
did  not  go  blind  until  after  he  had 
left  Jocasta.  Certainly,  the  Greek 
gods  had  a  peculiar  way  of  manag- 
ing things  when  they  punished 
a  man  for  a  deed  of  heroism  in- 
stead of  rewarding  him. 

But,  of  course,  like  all  the  won- 
derful stones  of  mythology  che 
story  of  Oedipus  has  a  hidden 
meaning  which  it  remained  for 
psycho-analysis  to  discover  fully. 
One  has  only  to  watch  th":  family 
of  one  boy  and  one  girl  to  see  the 
passionate  devotion  which  exists 
between  the  father  and  daughter, 
and  between  the  mother  and  son. 

Most  ol  us  are  familiar  only 
with  that  portion  of  the  Oedipus 
myths  occurring  in  Sophocles.  Of 
course,  there  are  many  more,  and 
all  of  them  have  received  discus- 
sion in  The  Crimes  of  the  Oedipo- 
dean  Cycle,  by  Henry  Newpher 
Bowman  (Badger).  To  be  sure, 
not  all  of  the  stories  are  such 
reading  as  we  should  recommend 
for  the  young  and  innocent  (if 
there  are  any);  but  the  book  is  of 
great  value  to  the  understanding 
of  any  Oedipus  play.  It  should  be 
invaluable  to  those  who  would 
read  in  English  what  is  perhaps 
the  world's  most  intense  and 
dramatic  story. 

Golden  Words  from  the  Book  of 
Wisdom  by  F.  A.  Wightman 
(Badger)  is  a  new  grouping  of  those 
wonderful  sayings  found  in  the 
Book  of  Proverbs.  As  the  editor 
says,  he  has  taken  the  gems  which 
were  strung  together  haphazard 
and  rearranged  them  according  to 
their  quality  and  coloring.  The 
effect  is  very  successful. 


378 


AMONG  FRIENDS 


It  is  wonderful  to  see  how  readily 
these  maxims  combine  into  a  very 
practical  and  entirely  modern  mor- 
al guidebook. 

Mr.  Wightman  has  selected  snch 
headings  as:  Concerning  Servants, 
(How  useful!),  J  Short  Course  in 
Business  Principles,  Who  Are 
Your  Companions?  and  Danger 
Signals. 

Other  valuable  additions  to 
Badger's  Library  of  Religious 
Thought  are 

The  New  Life,  by  William  Alex- 
ander Bodell. 

The  Secret  of  Successful  Life,  by 
William  W.  McLane. 

Soul  Crises,  by  James  William 
Robinson. 

Saved  as  By  Fire,  by  Cecil  F. 
Wiggins. 

Religious  Revival  And  Social 
Betterment    by    F.    A.    Robinson. 

Of  vast  interest  to  those  in- 
terested in  questions  of  spiritism 
is  the  new  volume  by  William  C. 
Comstock,  Thought  For  Help  (Bad- 
ger). This  work  contains  all  the 
previous  volumes  of  which  Mr. 
Comstock  is  the  amanuensis.  The 
book  is  particularly  valuable,  since 
there  is  no  possibility  of  question- 
ing the  sincerity   of  the  writer. 

Rev.  Joseph  A.  Milburn,  Ply- 
mouth Congregational  Church, 
Chicago  says  in  his  foreword: 

"In  the  early  afternoon  of  life 
the  writer  of  this  treatise  came, 
through  the  urgency  of  a  great 
sorrow  into  possession  of  a  re- 
markable gift' — the  gift  of  in- 
spirational writing.  It  is  an  old 
gift,  but  in  the  writer  of  this 
volume  it  has  taken  a  new  form. 
It  operates  with  him  in  the  high 
regions  of  metaphysics,  and  it  is 
almost  singular  in  the  history  of 
inspirational   writing   in   the   con- 


secutiveness  of  its  ideas  and  the 
orderliness  of  its  method. 

"The  message  commands  our 
attention  because  of  the  dignity 
of  the  gospel  it  embodies,  and  also 
because  of  the  unusual  process  of 
authorship.  Taken  in  its  scope, 
I  know  of  no  utterance  that  in  its 
metaphysics  and  morals  is  more 
exalting  than  the  redemptive  word 
that  comes  to  us  through  this 
writer.  There  are  many  notes  of 
magnitude  and  hopefulness  being 
struck  on  our  letter-day  ethical 
philosophies,  but  so  many  of  them 
are  deficient  in  the  fundamental 
requirement  of  any  really  illumina- 
tive system  of  thought — the  re- 
quirement of  sanity." 

An  extremely  valuable  study  in 
comparative  religion  is  Zorastrian- 
ism  and  Judaism  bv  George 
William  Carter,  Ph.  D.' (Badger's 
World  Worships  Series). 

Because  of  the  war,  th  ^  con- 
templa don  of  world  maps  and  the 
consideration  of  humanity's  his- 
tory have  become  objects  of  in- 
tensive study.  For  this  reason, 
the  study  of  Iranian  religion  and 
the  can  er  of  Zarathustra  become 
timely  topics;  the  Zend-Avesta 
has  become  a  war-document. 

Since  the  war  sprang  from  the 
excessive  egoism  of  the  Teuton, 
the  personality  of  Zarathustra 
becomes  of  special  interest,  es- 
pecially when  so  many  point  to 
Nietzsche  whose  chi  A  work  of 
super-ethics  is  Thus  Spake  Zara- 
thustra. 

Like  a  Persian  rug  the  Zend- 
Avesta  is  made  up  of  many  bright 
strands,  the  patient  unweaving 
of  which  has  been  the  work  of 
Dr.  Carter's  study.  The  work  is 
authoritative,  for  the  author  has 
gone  back  to  the  ancient  literatures 
themselves. 


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